


find a cathedral city

by hardlythewiser (sequinedfairy)



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 04:50:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20989142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequinedfairy/pseuds/hardlythewiser
Summary: what if klay wasn't drafted to the warriors?





	find a cathedral city

**Author's Note:**

> i couldn't have written this without grace and molly's constant encouragement and perfect ideas, and i couldn't have finished it without allison's spot-on suggestions. so so grateful for them. liralen came up with the idea of steph and klay on different teams in grace's comment section and it was so good i had to write it.
> 
> this is the longest thing i've ever written! please feel free to let me know if there are any mistakes. i hope you enjoy it.

To be clear: the mouth guard is fucking disgusting.

It’s gross when he pops it out, and even grosser when he pops it in. It’s infuriating that it’s never protecting his fucking mouth, just dragging Klay’s eyes to his pink lips, his triumphant smile after he makes a three over Klay’s head, his tongue running over the clear plastic during timeouts.

Klay runs his hand over himself, exhausted after another stupid loss to the Warriors, and thinks about replacing it with his dick.

***

The next stop is LA, an afternoon game with the Clippers. The team bus gets stuck in traffic on the 10; Klay could have told them they would. Wes, sitting a couple rows behind Klay, takes out a pack of cards and waves Klay over, but Klay shakes his head, leans back in his seat. Wes shrugs, starts dealing out a hand to a bunch of guys, and LaMarcus shoves him, tells him to stop looking at his cards. Klay tunes the fight out, drums his fingers on his thigh, thinks about the day to come, the night.

His parents are in the stands, his dad gesturing, trying to coach him like it’s middle school varsity, his mom embracing him after, gently rubbing his neck right where the tension is rooted. At eleven, after dinner and a game of chess, he tells them he’s gotta get back to the hotel, calls an Uber going to the eastside. In the backseat, he unbuttons three buttons of his shirt, then considers and unbuttons a fourth. The less people are looking at his face, the better.

The Uber drops him off in front of a club with a long line outside, girls teetering on their heels leaning on each other, an abundance of jumpsuits making it clear it’s Silverlake and not Hollywood. Klay walks to the end of the line and keeps going, turns a corner and ducks into an unmarked black door, hands the guy inside a fifty. There’s some heels in here, but not a lot of girls.

***

Klay was expecting a bathroom stall, but the guy — a little short, hair a little long, but nice full lips — leans back as Klay’s grinding into him, tells Klay he lives just a few blocks away. Klay wouldn’t mind a longer blowjob than what he can get with someone banging on the door.

On the way home, the guy — Tom? Jon? — tells Klay he’s from LA too, and they talk, easy, about high school bonfires on the beach, their first winters in college. Klay pushes him against a shadowy fence covered in bougainvillea, rich magenta in the moonlight, kisses him deep as the guy grinds against his thigh. The smell of jasmine mixes with whimpers as Klay slides his hand down the back of the guy’s pants.

Klay’s feeling loose, already a little sex-stupid, and even the interested stares from TomJon’s fucking roommates can’t totally bring him down. He ducks his head, nudges TomJon through the living room where they’re splitting a bottle of wine and watching Drag Race. TomJon opens the door to his room and Klay presses him inside, kicking the door shut with his foot and crossing the three feet to TomJon’s comically small bed. It’s not like he’s sleeping here, but still.

He looks up at the postcard hung on the wall, hoping for and finding a name. Jon. Much sexier than Tom.

Jon pulls away, already panting a little, and asks, “Do you smoke?”

There’s nothing Klay would like more than a few hits, just enough for his brain to shut up while he fucked Jon, but he shakes his head. “Drug tests at work,” he says, inviting no further questions.

“Sucks,” Jon says, then kisses him, standing up by the bed. Klay bites at his full lower lip, slides his hand up to the back of his neck. Slowly, ready to pull back, Klay starts applying a light downward pressure, and Jon smiles into his mouth, sinks smoothly to his knees. Klay shifts them around, so he’s sitting on the bed with Jon between his thighs, hands rubbing at Klay’s hipbones under his shirt. Klay’s hamstring is still tweaking from a jump, so he stretches his leg out past where Jon’s kneeling. His foot’s almost at the door; he feels like a giant in a dollhouse.

Jon leans forwards, nuzzles Klay’s zipper. “God, yeah,” Klay says, voice rough, hand tightening in Jon’s curls. Jon pulls his zipper down with his teeth, uses his hand to pull Klay’s dick out. With Klay’s eyes half-closed, the image in front of him is almost perfect: light brown skin, curls mixed with gold, his attention focused completely on Klay.

Klay doesn’t want to be a dick, so he rolls his hips just a little, waiting for his response. Jon slides down eagerly, looks up at Klay with big brown eyes, long lashes. Klay holds his head in place, fucks his mouth, bites his lips so nothing will slip out. The release is perfect, heat and softness, nothing to do but what feels good.

Thighs shaking, Klay pulls him off, starts jerking off, cupping Jon’s face with his hand. Jon nods, stays right where he is, and Klay comes, all over his pretty face. He slides his thumb through it, lets Jon suck his thumb into his mouth. Christ.

They fall onto the bed together, tangled up, and Klay lets go, stops trying to plan or decide. He’s got what he needed, and now he just kisses Jon messily, grabbing his ass, smiling into Jon’s gasping mouth. Jon’s dick fits so nicely into Klay’s hand, and Klay experiments, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of slick skin on skin and cut-off moans.

Jon sucks Klay’s fingers clean after, sloppy little noises. God, Klay’s gonna be thinking about the feeling of his tongue desperately working as Klay presses his fingers down for a while.

They’re pressed together, breaths evening out, Klay’s feet hanging off the edge of the bed. Jon kisses him, a little hesitant, and Klay kisses back, enjoying the curve of his back under the sweep of Klay’s hand. After a second, he pulls away, gathers his hands at his side again. “I’ve got an early flight,” he says, pressing down the part of him that wants to stay a little longer in the easy, numbing warmth, “so I gotta get going.”

“Oh,” Jon says, sleepily frowning up at Klay as he starts to sit up. “Do you want my, like, number? For next time you’re in LA.”

It’s an unnecessary risk; he should really leave as few traces as possible. “Sure,” he says, pulls his jeans off the floor and grabs his phone, passes it to Jon. Maybe next time, he can come straight over, make Jon kick out his roommates.

Jon puts in his number as Jon LA, like Klay has a system for ordering his hoes in different area codes. It makes Klay laugh, and he kisses Jon. “I don’t—I really only do this when I’m in LA,” he admits. He never wants to be the most famous guy in a bar.

“Cool,” Jon says. “Text me next time.”

***

It’s a quiet Uber back to the hotel. Klay asks the guy to take surface roads so he can keep his window open, watches the bungalows on the hills pass, warm orange light and closed doors. The air is dry and cool, no moisture lingering, and even the smog feels right in his lungs.

His bed is big enough for him and then some. Klay remembers visiting his dad on the road as a kid, he and his brothers crowding into the bed to wait for him late at night, kicking each other with excitement. It feels sterile, empty, and Klay thinks about his bed in Portland, Rocco’s stretched-out paws pushing against nothing, looking for Klay’s face to fart in.

Rocco likes the forests around Portland, the big trees, when Klay drives them out to the coast. He wonders, again, where they should go next year. He falls asleep before deciding, Jon’s mouth drifting into his head, his bed.

***

A week later, Klay’s sitting on the couch, Rocco on his lap trying to eat chicken off his plate. He gets a call from an unknown number, and for once he picks it up.

“Hi, Klay, it’s Steve Kerr,” Steve fucking Kerr says. Klay sits up straighter, slides Rocco to the side. “I wanted to let you know you’re going to be a starter on the Western Conference All-Star Team this weekend, replacing Blake Griffin. I’ve been quite impressed with your footwork and shots this season, and I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Klay’s quiet for a second, a little overwhelmed. “Thanks,” he says finally. “That’s awesome — I’m looking forward to it.”

That’s Tuesday. He spends the next three days watching Western Conference tape, looking for strengths he could build on, not weaknesses to hammer into. He knows it’s stupid, the game meaningless, but if there’s a way to win or lose, he’s gonna win. Plus, he wouldn’t mind showing Kerr what he could do.

He lets himself get a little lost watching Steph Curry, the way his threes float in, the mathematical beauty of his jump shots. He can picture where he could fit in, setting up screens, using the defense he developed to control Steph to give him more room on offense, let him focus on shooting. Dominating the backcourt together.

He watches Russell Westbrook’s vicious focus, his single-minded fury, a one-man army. He looks at Harden’s power, Chris Paul’s precision, trying to put the pieces together in his mind. But he keeps coming back to Curry.

At night, Klay can’t stop seeing it, the way he floats through the court, ethereal, ephemeral. When he jerks off, he pauses the porn he was trying to watch, closes his eyes and imagines Steph’s shots, Steph’s smile, Steph.

Afterwards, he wipes his hand off, grimaces. All-Star Weekend’s gonna go great.

***

Klay’s barely put his bags down in his room, taken a post-plane shower, when someone’s banging on his door. He opens it, preparing himself, and James Harden is grinning on the other side. “Team dinner,” he tells Klay. “Coach sent me to get you special, said he’d heard you don’t like to pick up your phone.”

Klay’s phone is still on airplane mode, so, fair. “I’m coming,” he says, tries to shut the door. Harden won’t move out of the doorway.

“Coach said to bring you back with me,” he says.

“Fine,” Klay says. He follows James out the door.

***

It’s like visiting WSU; Klay listens to the chatter as he enters the room, can feel himself retreating inwards. From childhood birthday parties to family weddings, he’s always hated the feeling of walking into a room of staring people. He spots two empty chairs at one corner of the table, and slips into one, letting Harden find a spot with someone more fun.

Klay’s leaning back in his chair, letting himself sprawl in a facade of comfort, when someone slips into the chair beside him. “Hey!” says a voice, bright but with a slight drag in the vowel, and Klay turns his head to meet Steph Curry’s bright green eyes, closer than expected.

“Hi,” Klay murmurs. It’s a lot, his whole face. Eager and open, big smile.

“Is it bad I can’t stop thinking that I could be golfing this weekend?” Steph asks, and Klay barks out a laugh, surprised.

***

Towards the end of dinner, Klay’s showing Steph a video of Rocco as a puppy destroying Klay’s sneaker, which is about as big as him, when Russell Westbrook clasps Steph on the shoulder, inserting himself between them. “Get in losers, we’re going out,” he announces, intonation pitch-perfect.

Klay doesn’t say anything. Steph looks at him. “Are you going out?” he asks.

“Nah,” Klay says. He doesn’t elaborate. He’s gonna FaceTime his mom, who flew up to hang out with Rocco, and play FIFA; might as well leave a little mystique.

“I’ll let you know,” Steph tells Russ, and Russ shrugs, exaggeratedly unconcerned. Russ makes eye contact with someone across the room, then pivots 180 degrees, struts out of the room. Klay looks over to see Kevin Durant blinking before he refocuses on talking to Harden.

Weird.

“Already got plans for tonight?” Steph asks.

“Just hate going out in New York,” Klay admits. He’s never gotten used to the feelings of buildings pressing down on him on all sides, misses the forest, the ocean, the spread-out hills of LA.

“Me too,” Steph tells him. “Never got used to the cold, even when we lived in Canada while I was a kid.”

“New Orleans, that’s a city. Shoulda been an All-Star last year.”

“Well, that was before you figured out that in the NBA, you actually need to defend.”

Klay laughs, surprised. “Fuck you, dude.” It was Steph he thought about defending all last summer, running through one more drill, one more set of squats, one more hour with his trainer.

Steph looks closely, seeming a little worried that he offended Klay, then smiles. “Nah, it was a real glow up this season, for real. You defending Tony Parker? I knew I needed to get worried.”

“I’m just gonna play FIFA tonight,” Klay tells him, stupidly pleased, “you’re welcome if you don’t wanna get pulled into Russ’s psychodrama.”

Steph bumps their knees together. “Sounds awesome,” he says, and Klay’s dick tells him that was a great idea.

***

It was a terrible idea.

Steph had ordered popcorn from room service, and the girl, who Klay bet had fought like six people to bring it up, blushed as she handed Steph fresh movie theater popcorn. Now he’s lying on his side, licking butter off his fingers in between rounds, and Klay’s just trying to ignore the whole situation.

“Do you remember going on road trips with your dad?” Steph asks, rolling onto his back, head flipped towards Klay, neck long and exposed.

“Yeah, whenever we could,” Klay says. “Why?”

Steph shrugs, his whole body a ripple of muscle, the arm folded under his head tugging his shirt up. “Dunno. It’s just funny to imagine, you know, what it was like when we weren’t there. Whether it felt too quiet in comparison.”

Klay knows what he means. It’s weird, doing the same job as your dad; brings into focus all of the moments you didn’t see as a kid, too self-centered, too in awe. Even when that job is NBA player, it brings an unspoken, unasked-for intimacy.

“You wanna FaceTime my mom and Rocco?” Klay offers. He doesn’t know how to say what he’s feeling in the sudden weight of the quiet room. How lonely it is sometimes, a hundred different hotel rooms that all smell the same. The way that late at night he misses the claustrophobic closeness of college like a punch in the chest.

Steph smiles, and Klay’s not trying to be cliche, but it honestly feels like the sun coming out after weeks of Portland rain, a sudden suffusion of warmth and light. “That would be awesome,” he says.

Klay’s mom answers, her usual Klay smile growing to something even more joyous when she sees Steph beside him.

“Hi baby,” she says, “and hi Steph! What a nice surprise.”

“Hi Mom,” Klay smiles.

“Hi Mrs. Thompson,” Steph says. “Thanks for letting me crash your call.”

His mom’s set up the iPad on his coffee table, angled so they can see Rocco between her legs, her hand softly scritching his neck.

“Of course!” she says, “I remember your mom. Such a nice lady—and a great volleyball player!”

“She says the same about you,” Steph says.

Rocco looks up and woofs, his confused bark when Klay’s on the screen, and Klay makes a dumb face back. “Hi buddy,” he says. “Nice to see you too. How’s being with Grandma?”

Conversation flows easily, his mom telling him about her new yoga teacher, the trail she and Rocco took that morning. Klay tells her that he’s been stretching like she showed him, and Steph laughs at their ping-pong trash talk.

He’s loose and easy by the time they hang up, grateful his mom will fly up to hang out with Rocco, that she’s always there.

“Thanks,” Steph says, sincere. “That was really nice.”

“Yeah, my mom’s the best,” Klay says. “I’m lucky.”

Steph’s still pressed up next to him to fit on the screen, and Klay can feel his warmth, the smell of his shampoo, sweet and a little spicy. Klay doesn’t move away, and neither does Steph, their breaths syncing up.

“FIFA?” Steph says eventually, voice thick with something.

Klay tosses Steph his controller, restarts the game.

***

Klay’s close to dozing off when Steph gathers himself, starts to move off the bed. Each movement is slow, as though Steph’s pulling back into himself, fragments lingering on the bed.

“I had a great night,” Steph says, polite as ever.

Klay shoves him. “Finally, a taste of that NBA Superstar life. Learning about my mom’s yoga class drama.”

Steph laughs. “I’ll make sure they put it in NBA 2K16. Elite level.”

“See you tomorrow, dude,” Klay says, as Steph lingers by the bed, pulling on the string of his hoodie. “I’m coming for your threes.”

“Yeah,” Steph says, still soft. “See you.”

***

Steph and Klay are shooting threes at the end of practice Saturday morning, stupid ones, backwards, Klay trying for fifty feet out. Everyone else has left the court, and of course there’s cameras lingering, but it feels easy, just fucking around. The door opens and an older guy walks in, moving confidently.

“Dad!” Steph calls, sending one last shot into the net. It swooshes perfectly, and he jogs over to Dell Curry. Dell slings his arm around Steph, a short but tight hug.

Klay turns to go back to the locker room, a little winded. He thinks he hears his name right as he’s walking into the tunnel, but he doesn’t hear anything else.

***

Practice felt normal, but the televised competitions are crazy, green rooms and harried producers with headsets everywhere. An assistant is keeping an eye on Klay, making sure he doesn’t slip away before the three-point contest, and though her watchful gaze makes him want to bounce, he makes himself sit in front of a TV, lounging on a couch in a corner of a makeshift greenroom.

The TV is showing what’s happening on the court, Steph Curry easily laughing with his dad in stupid matching outfits. Klay looks at his phone.

***

He’s on the bench, eyes tracking Steph, the way he floats, how even the ones that don’t go in — and there are plenty— look beautiful. Klay can feel the pebbled skin under his finger, the ease and fluidity of his movements, like it’s already his turn.

All of his life, both their lives, boil down to this, the precise extension of leg and arm, the sacred geometry of the arc.

Steph comes off with 23 points, and he locks eyes with Klay. Klay gives him an upward nod, and Steph raises one eyebrow, challenging.

It lights Klay up like a match on fireworks, shooting up straight through him, an explosion of color and light with a sonic boom. He’s hyper-present as he walks up, starting on the right where Steph ended, a mirror image.

Everything feels right, time slowing down as he aims, shoots, aims, shoots, vision and reality aligning perfectly, no messy edges.

He’s gonna beat him. He can feel it, like the first three when he drops twenty in a quarter, everything seamless. He sinks every ball in the second rack, boom boom boom boom boom.

He’s Klay Thompson. He can do this.

***

It’s Steph Curry. He couldn’t do it.

It was like every fucking game against the Warriors; as much as you try to prepare yourself, to guard against it, the third quarter punches you in the face, easy and swift, and then in the stomach, messy, nauseating. And once you feel that, the slight of hand you play with yourself about how this time’ll be different falls apart, cards scattered on the floor. Nothing in your hand but a pair of fives.

Klay’d gotten the highest score on the first round, 24 points sliding in perfectly, and he’d smirked at Steph as he strode of the court, received high fives and an ass slap from the sidelines.

And then Steph had walked up, loose and easy, ghosting his shot as he waited. Captivating.

When Klay’s at his best, he feels like Iron Man, his body a powerful machine perfectly under his control. When Steph’s at his best, it’s Captain America: superhuman, capable of feats beyond what he knows.

Twenty-fucking-seven points. Thirteen shots in a row.

Klay’d been standing on the sideline like an idiot, watching Steph smile, point up at Jesus, comfortably receive the screaming adulation of the crowd. He’d kept himself together, slapped Steph’s hand as they passed each other, but he knew he’d lost it. Before, starting where Steph ended, he felt like a mirror image, but now he just felt like a shadow.

The center rack was a mess, only the first shot going in, and he knew it was over then. His movements were tense, his mind working too hard, and he couldn’t even get off the final shot before the buzzer went off. Fourteen points; the least of any round. Psychological warfare.

Steph had leapt up as he missed his last shot, crowned with glory, and it took everything Klay had to pull himself back together, to act like he knew it was just a stupid contest, meaningless. Steph had reached out for him as he walked off, and he submitted himself for a brief hug, turned away.

He’s on the sidelines now, watching Steph on the court, counting in loops of ten until he can get away from the fucking cameras in his face. He hates this feeling, when he knows he fucked up and his brain is scrambling for someone else to put it on. It’s what made him snap at Ben, his friend, in college during fucking practice for running into him, the part he has to beat into submission with endless practice and video games and thinking about how pissed his mom would be if he became an asshole.

Finally, Steph is handed the trophy, shining like King Arthur, so right with gold you can’t imagine him with anything else. Klay takes off down the tunnel as soon as everyone gets up off the bench, grateful all the cameras are still focused on Steph. He’s changing out of his jersey in the empty locker room, pulling off his crisp white and pulling on a soft grey long sleeve, when Steph bursts through the door, awkwardly juggling the trophy.

“Hey!” Steph says, still flushed and pleased from the cheers.

Klay doesn’t turn from his locker. He slides his other arm into its sleeve, pulls it down over his sweaty chest, more the stress sweat of a billion cameras than a satisfying post work-out sheen. “Nice job,” he forces himself to say.

“Dude,” Steph says, a laugh in his voice, walking a few steps closer, “that was awesome! 24 points. We should do this every day.”

“I do,” says Klay. “So do you.” It’s weird that he’s still facing away, so he makes himself pivot so he’s looking at Steph, hoisting the trophy like a toddler.

“No, I mean, together. A competition. When you came off I swear I entered, like, a new state of being I wanted to beat you so bad.”

Klay literally bites his tongue against what he wants to say, You did, like a sullen kid whose mom didn’t let him win Connect Four. It hurts, but at least it works. “Watch out next year,” he manages, after a long, awkward moment of silence.

“Hopefully sooner than that,” Steph says, and Klay’s still trying to process that when a harried looking woman with a headset pops her head in and says, “Mr. Curry, they need you for a clip on Soundstage Three, I can walk you over.”

Steph darts his eyes over to Klay as the girl politely glares at Steph. “See you,” Klay says, and Steph nods, allows himself to get herded away, glancing back at Klay a last time as he walks out the door, mouth still half open.

***

The Uber is crawling across the bridge from Brooklyn into Manhattan, disorienting lights on all sides, fractured from the windows. The clouds threaten snow, but it hasn’t come yet, just wind and cold. Klay cracks his window open, suffocating a little in his parka, and Steph nudges him with an elbow, smiles thanks. Klay opens it a little more.

They’re going to some backroom of some downtown club, and Klay’s feeling looser, the comedown of losing and the three mini bottles he knocked back in his hotel room before meeting them downstairs mixing in him, but not unpleasantly. He’d done some suicides in an abandoned practice gym till he was panting, shirt discarded in the corner, then shot fifty threes, made 48. Just to know it was there.

Russ had texted him while he was showering, demanding he come out, and Klay had said yes without really knowing why. He’d gone to the room number Russ sent him, which turned out to be Kevin Durant’s.

There were a bunch of people there, wives and girlfriends mingling, and Klay had an immediate pang for his quiet room. He refocused, got a drink and untensed his shoulders, started nodding his head to the music and chatting.

It’s just him, Steph, Damian Lillard and James Harden in the car, meeting everyone else at the club. James passes Dame a little bottle and a tab from shotgun, and Dame nods thanks. They start talking about how Dame wants to shift the Buck’s defense, and Klay slides down a little, knees spilling out into Steph, Steph pressing back.

The club is packed, even the roped-off section. Klay talks to LaMarcus, dances a little, but mostly he drinks, trying to stay at the precise level where everything’s loose and open, easy.

He takes a shot someone offers to him and it tips him over the edge, the club suddenly a little too loud, everyone a little too close. He slips away, looking for a roof or balcony, a place to fill his lungs with bracingly cold air. He walks up a short flight of stairs, opens a random door and feels a blast of cold air. Under the wind, he can hear voices, fast, sharp. He steps out, low clouds purple with reflected city lights, briefly sheltered by the wind.

“You’re fucking unbelievable,” he hears Russ accuse, and he pauses, pressed against the wall, around the corner from Russ and whoever.

“I’m just saying,” Kevin Durant says, deliberately calm, “if you’re gonna invite people to my room, you could at least put your moisturizer away.”

“What the fuck?” Russ says. “It’s too gay for people to think you moisturize? Fucking dudes is okay but skincare’s for fags?”

Klay holds his breath. He definitely shouldn’t be here, but he can’t move now.

“No, you just talk about it all the time, dude. It’s easy to connect the dots.” Kevin’s still deliberately measured, refusing to give in to Russ’ barbs.

“Oh, suck it up,” Russ snaps. “Or just suck —”

Russ goes abruptly silent, and Klay hears a moan, a harsh exhale. He leaves as quietly as he can while they’re still distracted. Not his business.

Steph’s scanning the club when Klay walks up behind him, and Klay wonders what he’s looking for. “Wanna bounce?” he asks, a little too close to Steph’s ear, but the club is loud. Steph startles, turns towards him, his mouth almost brushing Klay’s jaw.

“Sounds good,” Steph says, and Klay can feel the warmth of his breath lingering on his skin.

***

They end up wandering down the winding streets, unexpected triangles and low buildings making Klay feel calmer than he usually does in New York. He can distantly tell it’s cold, but he’s drunk enough that it can’t touch him, like snow in Pullman during winter break, a blanket from reality.

Steph’s weaving on the sidewalk, like he’s about to float away, and Klay has to grab his arm to make sure he doesn’t collide with a fire hydrant. Steph tips into him, and Klay doesn’t let go, hand wrapped around his wrist. They had seen a few girls stumbling down opposite to them, teetering and shivering, but now it feels like they’re the only people on Earth, a post-apocalyptic New York.

They end up on the corner of a wide street, next to a subway stop, staring at a basketball court. It’s unlocked, and Klay can see an abandoned basketball rolled into a corner.

Steph tugs him through the gate, already laughing, and Klay follows.

The court is tiny, the hoop too low, the basketball old. Steph picks it up and Klay’s on fire, checking him with his hip, aggressively in his space. Steph’s laughing, but his eyes are bright and focused, shoots a three that Klay just manages to knock with his fingertip. Klay fistpumps in victory and they race over to the ball, Steph grabbing it out of Klay’s hands.

They’re too drunk to jump or get fancy, neither of them want to end up in rehab from this. But they make up for it by refusing to call each other’s fouls, just taking and giving, panting. Klay orbiting around the ball, around Steph, coming in like a comet then swinging back away, as long a shot as he can manage on the tiny court.

Steph’s eyes are locked onto Klay’s, his hips shoving into Klay’s space, the headlights from passing cabs highlighting the muscles and veins in his arms. Their coats are abandoned in a corner, and neither of them are keeping score. The only thing that exists is the moving triangle formed by them and the hoop, the space lit up by the glow of its three points.

Steph runs towards a rolling ball, and Klay follows right behind him, close enough that when Steph starts to trip, Klay can grab his waist, pull him back. He overbalances, not braced enough for Steph’s weight and caught in the same tangle of coats that tripped Steph. He catches himself on his forearm as he falls back, Steph landing on top of him, thumbs brushing the side of Klay’s ribs.

Klay stares up, winded, and Steph stares back. It just started snowing, the pure white powder of midnight, and there’s a snowflake on Steph’s eyelash, just to the right of his right iris. Klay’s mouth is open from the gasp of hitting the cold ground, and he can see the snowflake shift as Steph looks down towards it. One of Klay’s hands is still tight on Steph’s waist, but he can’t make himself loosen it, afraid to break the frozen moment.

Steph’s mouth falls open, soft pink tongue resting against his teeth, and Klay has no idea what’s going to happen next. There’s no future, no past, just this: legs tangled up and hips pressed together, Steph’s curls accumulating snowflakes, one of Klay’s fingertips brushing the bump of Steph’s spine. The snow is reflecting light in unfamiliar ways, shining onto Steph’s cheekbone and the clouds above, dream lighting.

“Go fuck her then!” suddenly reverberates into the court, shattering the moment, and they both start. Steph rolls off Klay, and Klay looks over to where a girl is yelling at her girlfriend, both of them fresh off the subway. Steph raises his eyebrow and Klay makes a face back.

“Maybe I will!” the girlfriend shouts, and strides back down the steps as the first girl breaks into loud sobs. Klay’s suddenly freezing, no longer protected from the snow by Steph’s body radiating heat, and Steph’s shivering, but neither of them move until the girl turns the corner, her sobs echoing halfway down the block.

“Yikes,” Klay says, and Steph laughs, pushes himself up and offering Klay a hand. Klay takes it, mostly so he can feel the coiled strength in Steph’s slight body, powerful shoulders.

They huddle together under an awning of a jazz club to wait for the Uber, languorous notes spilling out every time the door opens. Klay feels like he’s watching an old movie with his mom, like they should be in black and white right now, parkas turned into pea coats.

The drive back is quiet. Klay wishes, stupidly, that Steph were pressed against him, wet jeans sliding together on turns. While they’re on the bridge, snow dusting the road and the stone towers ahead, the driver scans through stations, and pauses on a rich, deep voice singing about wanting a Sunday kind of love. Klay looks over Steph, who’s looking back, and watches his throat bob as Steph swallows.

A thumping bass interrupts the soaring note, Uptown Funk playing for probably the thousandth time that day, and Steph looks back out the window. After a second, Klay does too.

***

Klay’s pretty hungover the next day, and from the look of the locker room, most of his teammates are too. Steve Kerr surveys them, clearly unsurprised by their bullshit. He waits, patiently, for the room to fall silent, guys wrapping up their conversations, looking up from rubbing their temples, chugging Gatorade.

“Okay,” he says. “You guys are the greatest basketball players in the world. Let’s act like it. Including during practice.”

Klay’s not sure what the right level of serious is; it doesn’t matter, but he’s seen offseason pickup games in LA get wild, and those aren’t televised, so. He’s just gonna try to redeem himself after his grand 14-point finish; also, not puke.

He’s on defense, he and Steph trying to put a stop to Chris Paul and James Harden. Klay spots an opening as Chris starts to shoot, leaps from where he’s guarding James to grab the ball out of midair and send it over Chris’ head back to Steph. Steph races down the court, free for a jump shot, and seems to levitate for a second, floating free from gravity, as the ball slices into the net.

“Woo!” Steph says, hands up, tossing his head like Rocco after a swim, and Klay lets himself laugh, big and full. Steve’s watching them thoughtfully, beckons him over.

Klay jogs towards him, and Steve says, “That was nice.” Klay nods, waiting for more, and Steve says, “But if your core was stronger, you could move without swaying, do that during every game, not just in practice.”

Klay’s a little stunned. He’s been studied, coached, analyzed, broken down and built back up since he was a kid, but he’s never had someone, from thirty minutes of watching him play, so precisely target what he was missing. And he’s right, Klay can feel it on the court, when his mind can move faster than his body, the pivots and lateral shifts just a millisecond slower than they should be.

“You might regret suggesting that,” Klay manages to joke, still a little blown away.

Steve smiles, still friendly, but it makes Klay think of a shark spotting a lagging fish. “Oh, I don’t think I will.” He claps Klay on the shoulder. “Get back to it, let’s see what you can do on offense with Steph over here.”

He tilts his head, and Klay looks over to where Steph’s drifted over, looking rapt. Steph starts at his name, smiles a little sheepishly, and tosses the ball to Klay.

They get in position, ready to run the play again.

***

When Klay gets to the court, he starts remembering the feeling of the three-point contest. It’s the exact wrong thing to think about, but he can’t stop it, feels the doubt leech into in his veins and the marrow of his bones.

Fucking Pau Gasol blocks his first three-point in the first quarter, and it drains him of vigor, leaves him gasping, grasping at something just out of reach. He keeps trying, stupidly, but once the magic’s gone, it’s gone.

He’s not the only one looking worse for wear on the court. Kevin Durant showed up to practice looking wrecked, carefully changing across the locker room from Russ. Russ’ eyes were fever-bright, vibrating and pushing everyone’s buttons, Steve Kerr pulling him out of a drill after he looked like he was about to tell Dame exactly what he should be doing instead of getting in Russ’ way. Kevin only plays ten minutes; it’s his sixth All-Star game, and Klay remembers the past ones, what a dominating force he was. Today, it’s like he’s not even in the floor; three points total, drifting like a ghost.

The game belongs to Russ. He scores 27 in the first half, the kind of fire that no one, not even Russ, can control. He doesn’t relax after any basket, won’t stop moving for a second, throwing himself into charges with LeBron like a dolphin leaping out of the ocean, flinging himself in the air for the rush of oxygen. Klay’s in awe, but he’s a little worried, too. It doesn’t seem possible to set everything else ablaze with such furious abandon without eventually burning yourself. He’s seen Russ in playoffs games where he’s on fire, and ones where he can’t quite get there; he can’t control it.

After the game, Klay’s ready to get out of there, grateful his agent got him the earliest flight out he could make. There shouldn’t be too many people on a 1AM flight back to Portland. He’s getting up off the bench when Steph turns to him, fluorescent light making his shoulders glisten with sweat, mouth shiny, parted. “Uh, bye,” Klay says, arms hanging down by his side, crashing after the game.

“You’re going already?” Steph asks.

“Yeah,” Klay says, “gotta get my flight.”

“Oh,” Steph says, “gotcha. Well. I had a lot of fun.”

“Me too,” says Klay, meaning it. “See you around?”

“Definitely,” Steph says, smiling wide, tilted on the bench towards Klay. He levers himself up for a hug, wrapping around Klay, and Klay hugs back, feels the heat of his body pressed close, making him a little light headed. He pulls away before Steph does, needing to breathe again.

He ducks away from the media before the MVP award is presented, gives Russ a quick hug and a back slap. Russ is still jittery, eyes searching around the court, and Klay palms his head, squeezes once.

He’s a good dude; Klay hopes they figure it out.

***

Klay gets back into the grind of the season, trying to hit his threes and field goals too, not fuck up his defensive assignments. He channels his leftover frustration from the 3-point contest and his performance in the game into a string of wins, each one proof positive he can do more, be more. But even so, as he flies where they tell him to, puts in extra hours of practice, has some great nights, there’s a spark missing. He refuses to think about how this vague discontent wasn’t there before All-Star Weekend. CJ invites him out a couple times, drinks with him and Meyers, a club in Miami, but Klay feels too jittery to spend a night making conversation in a crowded room. During a game with the Mavs, Wes Matthews tears his Achilles’ tendon, and it spooks everyone: suddenly Klay doesn’t have backup, has to fight for his life every night.

One off day in early March, he’s walking Rocco on a trail outside the city, trying to get to a river where they can both splash around for a bit. He just landed in Portland yesterday and went straight to the stadium for practice and a game. The trail’s more crowded than he likes; he was so shook up from the road trip and the home loss he forgot it was a Sunday, and he keeps having to dodge yoga moms and gently herd Rocco away from little kids intent on petting him. Rocco trots off the trail to sniff a moss-covered log, and Klay takes a video of his furiously wagging body, types _Killer instincts,_ and sends it to Steph and his brothers. Steph responds right away, _let him on the court!!!_ Klay laughs, tucks his phone back into his pocket.

They’ve made it to the river, early wildflowers poking up and water tumbling over the rocks, fir needles rustling in the wind. Rocco’s splashing happily and Klay’s sitting on a rock, unlacing his sneakers to dip his feet, when he hears, “Hey Klay!”

Klay grimaces, keeps unlacing his sneakers. He knows that tone of voice. “Hey, Thompson,” the guy’s voice says again, closer this time, and Klay looks up, resigned. He can’t even loom, his shoe half off, knee folded up awkwardly to get some purchase on the rock.

It’s a middle-aged white guy in a full trail outfit, dumb little CamelBak sucking tube from his backpack on his shoulder, ultra tech zip longsleeve, the works. Klay saw like six grandmas on this trail today, so he’s not sure why this guy needs his whole climbing Mt. Everest look on, but whatever. “Yeah?” he says, no invitation in his voice.

“I was at the game last night,” he announces, pompous like he was on the fucking court with Klay. Klay doesn’t roll his eyes, but just barely. “I’m a season ticket holder. And I was just wondering why you decided to foul Chris Paul in the third, causing us to lose our two point lead and helping them win.”

“Dude, what?” Klay says. His knee is aching, he’s got another game on Tuesday, and he just doesn’t get what the fuck’s this guy’s problem.

“Was I unclear? I just wanted a little clarity on your decisions,” he demands.

“Find a fucking hobby,” Klay suggests. “I like video games.”

The guy reels, sputtering. A little drop of water flies out of his CamelBak to land on Klay’s track pants. “Maybe you should focus a little more on basketball and less on video games,” he says, voice dripping with condescension.

“Let me know if you ever want to go one on one, man. Otherwise, I’m just trying to enjoy a nice day with my dog. You could try it.”

“I’m a season ticket holder!” the guy says, as Klay turns back to unlacing his shoe.

“And I’m a shooting guard,” Klay says, keeping his breaths even, steady. He can see some guys with their phones out fifteen feet away, and he’s not trying to land on the front page of Deadspin.

Klay finally gets his fucking shoe off, steps into the water next to Rocco, who’s panting happily, staring up at him. The shock of cold water, pure snowmelt, is grounding, and he focuses on that, turned downriver so the only things in his vision are Rocco, trees, and a big boulder parting the flow of water. He inhales, breathing in the familiar evergreen smell and listening to the birds around him, and exhales, slow and steady, catalogues all the shades of green he can see in front of him. He leans down, picks up a couple of stones, looking for one that feels flat and even in his palm, lets the best one loose.

Three skips. Not bad for a first try.

On the fifth rock, he can hear the guy huff furiously and jog away, but Klay stays in the river until his toes are completely numb, trying to let the cool reach his pounding, furious heart.

***

He and Steph have been DMing, a little. Nothing real, just Steph sending him a video of a nice fairway bunker shot, Klay adding him to the list of people he sends photos of Rocco too.

But Steph always replies, even if it’s just an emoji of a dolphin at Rocco in the pool, and Klay finds that he does too, and occasionally, when their schedules align before pre-game naps or when they’re buzzed after games in different time zones, they chat. Klay can't quite ever understand why it’s so easy — it’s not like they have that much common, Steph spends Sundays at church and Klay’s usually deciding whether he can risk getting high while he plays Call of Duty — but it flows, memes and unexpected jokes and speculation about LeBron and the Eastern Conference, what the draft will be like this year.

He’s trying to respond to a photo Steph sent him, him looking soft in his house, hoodie on as he watches a Final Four game, when a PR guy pokes his head out into the hallway where Klay’s lounging on his phone. “You ready?” he says, half-apologetically.

“Sure,” says Klay. Front office asked him if he’d mind doing a long-form interview that would come out for the first round of playoffs. It’s gonna be a whole thing, a reporter following him around for the day, probably questions about his personal life, what he’s planning for free agency, the whole nine yards. Klay does mind, kind of a lot, but Chris, his agent, strongly implied that he didn’t really have a choice. After his 37-point quarter, he’s the face of the franchise: it’s fun, obviously, but it’s a lot of pressure, in a way that college wasn’t. There’s more invasive looks, the expectation that if he tried hard enough, he could do that every night, that every loss is because he didn’t care enough.

The reporter comes out of the office, big smile on her face, and Klay stands up to meet her, psyching himself up.

***

She’s nice enough, but Klay feels like he’s crawling out of his skin. He doesn’t really like having her in his house, Rocco picking up on Klay’s discomfort and barking until Klay had to put him outside. But he didn’t want to be a douche having an interview in a restaurant, and PR said he couldn’t just talk in the gym. So here they are, her looking at his messy counters, Rocco’s chewed up porcupine toy, his college roommate’s wedding photos on the fridge, Klay shooting a firework at the reception.

“In college and on the Blazers, you’ve been a star on a team with a mixed record.” she says, perching on the couch as Klay sits in the recliner. “As you approach free agency, are you prioritizing a chance at a championship, or continuing to be the center of a team?”

Klay makes a face, and he knows she notices, that it’ll be in the article.

Klay’s mouth gives the right answer; how grateful he is for the team and the fans; how great LaMarcus and CJ are doing lately; how much he loved being a Cougar. But his brain is drifting. When Klay was 18, he was pissed at UCLA and USC for not seeing how good he could be, and he still missed the space and ease of the Pacific Northwest, rain and rivers and cool, shaded forests to get lost in. Pullman was perfect for him, long days of fucking around and long nights of shooting alone in the gym, enough room to let him just be, and when he got drafted to the Blazers he assumed it would feel as right.

But he can feel himself chafing, just a little, too many off-court expectations, his sense that he could be elevating his game if he had more room to play in offense. Thinking about Steve Kerr’s sharp eyes, perfect passes from Steph, how crystal-clear everything felt, like looking down at your feet in the ocean in the Bahamas.

She pushes him on his free-agency plans and he gives another non-answer, and eventually he lets Rocco back in, holding him close, eager for the subject change.

She takes the hint, asks about how he and Rocco have changed since his rookie season, and he relaxes, mostly.

***

They go on a dizzying week-long, five game road trip, starting with a win in Toronto but then four brutal losses up and down the southeast, the kind of shit where you lose, fly somewhere the next morning, and then, still disoriented, lose again that night. Every game’s a blur, stops he should have made, passes that didn’t connect, moments where he hesitated too much or not enough, and between his dad’s post-game texts and the assistant coaches’ barely-disguised pity as he pushes himself to fix his shit after practice, all he can think about is the sweet solitude of his house, Rocco the only one depending on him.

They get home Saturday night, and Sunday’s a rare true off day, orders for low-impact work only. Klay spends it decompressing, Call of Duty with Rocco by his side, not texting anyone back.

In the evening, he looks at the schedule, ready to start watching some tape, and freezes. _Tuesday, March 24 (home): Golden State Warriors,_ nestled between two road trips, right on the schedule taped up on his fridge, edges curling up. It’s not a big deal, obviously. It’s a game; Steph’s just another opponent. Nothing happened during that weekend, and Steph probably barely remembers that moment on the little court in the snow. Klay would have realized earlier, but the road trip consumed him, and he’s just surprised, now. A little caught off-balance.

He starts by focusing on Harrison Barnes, then Draymond Green, trying to track the fluidity of the ball, any places where they might leave Steph vulnerable. Only after that, once he’s gotten a sense of the rhythm of the team, how they come out of half-time and put one stop after another, till you’re too dazed to block their shots, does he begin to watch Steph.

He focuses, analyzes his weaknesses and tracks the way he warps the defense around him, a neutron star, dense and bright, pulling everyone into orbit. He watches how he makes decisions, his seamless two-steps and the way he sees the court. He slots himself into the plays, visualizes how he could stop his pull-up threes.

In the shower, he closes his eyes, visualizes some more. It doesn’t take long. After, rivers of water wash him clean.

***

As Klay turns of the ignition in the practice facility parking lot, he sees CJ pull up a few spots away. They get out of their cars at the same time, and Klay nods at CJ. CJ smiles brightly at him, and Klay pops out an earbud, tries to be normal.

“What’s up?” CJ says, hand in the pocket of his sweats. Klay can hear him fiddling with his car keys.

Klay shrugs. “Fucking Warriors,” he says. It’s true on a lot of levels.

CJ laughs, bumps his shoulder against Klay’s. “You’ll kill it,” he says. “We’ll kill it.” Klay nods, but he can’t focus.

Klay pushes himself too hard during practice, desperate, keyed-up, and his trainer takes one look at him after, dripping with sweat, a tremor in his thighs, and frowns. “Ice bath,” he says, no room for argument, and Klay submits.

He’s almost completely numb by the time there’s a knock on the door to the trainer’s room. “Come in,” he calls. Coach is the only one who ever knocks, all the trainers and assistants striding in to prove how comfortable they are, no homo.

The door opens, but it’s not Coach. It’s Steph Curry, looking abashed in a grey t-shirt that only incidentally says Warriors on it, black leggings with shorts over them. He sees Klay in the too-small tub and freezes, mouth open softly, pink tongue just touching his teeth.

“Hi?” Klay says, question clear in his voice.

“Um,” Steph says. “I wanted to see you — off the court. And my schedule’s a little crazy,” he adds, pitch going up on the y.

“Here I am,” Klay says, and Steph nods, triple-time. His shoulders are held tightly, his hands clasped in front of him, fiddling with his thumbs.

Steph’s eyes are sliding around the room when a Klay’s phone timer starts beeping, and he reaches out to stop it, stands up. The warmth of the air just makes him feel his freezing skin and dripping boxer-briefs more acutely, and he wraps his arms around himself, spies a towel on the bench by Steph. “Would you,” he says, nodding at the towel, and Steph’s eyes widen before he spins around, spots the towel, grabs it.

Klay imagines he can feel the warmth where Steph was holding the towel as he wraps it around himself, shivers at the mix of sensations. “Thanks,” he says, stepping out of the tub, going to perch on the bench.

“No problem,” Steph says, in a more normal tone. “How have you been?”

“You know,” Klay says. There’s a pause, and when Klay opens his mouth, he’s more honest than he expected. “Do you like, like, all that extra shit? The interviews and the people asking for pics and the whole media circus?”

He assumed it would be like asking Steph if he liked basketball, or God, so obvious to be offensive, but Steph takes a minute, really thinks about it. “I dunno,” he says, biting his lower lip. “It never really bugged me. I mean, growing up I didn’t really have a choice; my dad was my dad, and it was easier to embrace it.”

“When I moved to LA to start high school, I didn’t tell anyone who my dad was for a year. I mean, I didn’t really talk to anyone anyway, so it was easy, but.”

Steph laughs, bright and unexpected, a church bell in the morning light. “Really? What was it like?”

Klay shrugs. “I dunno, I was feeling angsty about moving. Regular 14 year old bullshit. I learned to skateboard by myself pretty well.”

“Why’d you start talking again?” Steph asks, his green eyes totally focused on Klay.

“I got a growth spurt, got on the varsity team. My dad came to a game where I dropped twenty, seemed easier to go with the flow than fight against it.” He remembers the overnight shift, the rest of the team really looking at him for the first time, popular girls smiling at him in the hallway, invitations to senior parties suddenly appearing. It’s not like he really talked that much more, but suddenly his quiet was nonchalant, cool, not the weird new kid but the chill star.

“People at church were always stopping me to tell me they were praying for my dad to win,” Steph tells him, clearly lost in his own memories. “Like, when people are caring like that, you wanna show up for them, you know? It’s the same deal.”

“Good attitude,” Klay notes, and Steph laughs.

“Dunno,” he says. “Definitely never led me to skateboarding.”

“I would say I’d teach you during off-season, but I think both our contracts forbid that kinda shit.”

“Stuck with golf, like old white dudes,” Steph says. “At least it’s something you can score. “

Klay nods, drops his towel, starts hunting for his sweats. He sees them on the floor in the corner, bends over to grab them.

“Anyway,” Steph says, talking fast again. “I wanted to ask for your number, see if you wanted to play some golf in the off-season or whatever.”

“Sure,” Klay says. He gives it to Steph, Klay’s briefs still dripping freezing water onto his thighs, holding his little bundle of high-performance nylon in front of his dick.

“I’ll text you my number,” Steph says, and he’s opening his mouth to say more when his phone starts angrily vibrating, and he makes a face, picks it up. Klay can hear fast, clipped words on the other side, and Steph smiles, rueful. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” he protests, mouths sorry to Klay, ducks back out the door.

What the fuck.

Klay’s halfway through changing when Leon, his trainer, comes back in. “Did I just pass by Steph Curry?” he asks, and Klay shrugs.

Leon lets it be. Good dude.

***

From the minute Klay comes out of the tunnel, he feels electric. Steph is across the court, eyes locked on Klay, and Klay can feel the current crackling between them.

Steph matches him step for step, and it feels like the court in the snow again, just the two of them, fast shots and bright eyes. Steph shimmies after he slides through Klay’s screen for a lay-up, and Klay refocuses, feeling alive, down to the tips of his fingers.

The ball’s coming straight toward Klay from CJ; he can sense it. He grabs it out of the air without looking, mid-jump, and lands right behind the three-point line. He lands low so he can spring back up, send it over Draymond Green’s head before Draymond’s spun around towards him. It swooshes into the net, beautiful, and Klay looks on instinct towards Steph, who’s looking back, a smile in his eyes. Klay smiles back, less of a smirk than he means to do, just happy. Happy he made the shot, but especially happy that Steph saw it. A dangerous feeling.

Klay ends up with 29 points, so close to dropping thirty he can taste it on the roof of his mouth, the promise lodged in his throat. Steph gets 33, all of them made past Klay, but Klay’s not envious, not even that mad at himself, because it felt like they were playing on another plane, the realest things on the court. Klay could feel where Steph was going to slide to, even if he couldn’t always stop him, could feel the honest joy in his stupid shimmy. And Steph looked where Klay was going, not where he was, knew better than Klay’s own teammates how Klay would slide through the elevator doors for a pull-up three.

On the court after the Warriors win, Steph pulls him in for a hug, and Klay goes. “You were awesome,” he tells Klay, and it should be patronizing but it’s not, just makes Klay glow a little brighter, stand up a little taller.

“Thanks, man,” Klay says. He can hear the cameras snapping pic after pic of them, knows it’ll be a question in his post-game conference.

“I’ll text you?” Steph asks, a little unsure, not the untouchable hero of the court, and Klay nods, squeezes Steph’s shoulder.

He’s trying to leave, snatch a few minutes of quiet before his media appearance, when Draymond Green steps in front of him at the mouth of the tunnel.

“Nice game,” Klay says, autopilot, and Draymond makes a face.

Klay’s a little taken aback, but Dray’s face slides back into its usual broad grin. “Yeah, sure,” he agrees, like he doesn’t understand why Klay’s talking about something so irrelevant. “You and Steph are looking real friendly.”

Klay wants to freeze, to bolt, but he refuses to move a single muscle out of place, keeps his breathing steady. Doesn’t say anything, watches Dray with unflinching eyes.

“I think it’s sweet,” Dray assures him. “Look at this outfit! Should I wear more layers? Watch this three pointer Klay Thompson shot last night! Check out how cute Klay’s dog is!”

Klay’s still not sure where this is going, what Dray’s trying to say, but he smiles, just a little, at his bad imitation of Steph’s happy drawl.

Dray smiles too, then sets his face a little firmer. “Steph’s a great dude. But he’s way too trusting for a superstar. Don’t you be the one who fucks that up.”

Klay nods, and Dray keeps staring at him for a few long moments, then pivots and walks away. Klay books it down the tunnel, but he can’t shake off the weight of Dray’s gaze.

***

_Hey it’s steph  
Steph curry_

_Hi Steph_

_Draymond’s trying to get a photo of coach asleep for Snapchat_

_That seems like a mission destined for failure_

_At least it keeps him busy_  
I_’m not trynna sacrifice myself for coach_

_Yeah don’t be a hero curry_  
_I think Rocco knows I’m leaving again tomorrow_  
_ He’s mad at me_

_I think you and Rocco should be on the dog whisperer show_

_How dare u we understand each other perfectly already  
I don’t need some fucking fake psychic dude coming in to tell me about my dog _

_Send a pic I’ll see if he’s really mad at u_

_Zoolander blue steel gaze you know it’s serious_

_I think u guys can repair the relationship_  
_Maybe w steak_  
_Can’t wait to meet him_

***

Spring comes to Portland, Rocco sniffing the flowers blooming around the neighborhood on walks, more and more blue skies overhead, and with that comes playoffs. Last year was Klay’s first time making it to the playoffs, and he still can taste the pure exhilaration of the Game Six first-round win against the Rockets, the lingering bitterness of the loss against the Spurs, how it was in the back of his mind every day of the off-season, every drill and every training session.

Practice is ramping up, everyone focused on making it to the Semi-Finals again and hopefully beyond. Meyers and CJ are pushing themselves every second they’re on the court, trying to convince Coach they should be starters, and LaMarcus is getting rebounds with viscious precision, ignoring what must be hell on his thumb. It feels like Wes’ Achilles tear unleashed a plague: knees and backs, strains and breaks everywhere Klay looks. Everyone’s a little more superstitious than usual, cardgames turning sour quicker, scrimmages brittle and ready to snap. Klay’s icing his knees and ankles after every practice, stretching with the trainers for long hours, paranoid about missing any minutes, that his luck will run out.

The first round is against the Grizzlies, who are the fifth seed to the Blazer’s fourth, starting on home territory. They just can’t get off the floor, field goals not going in, layups flopping and passes failing, and Klay can barely talk at the press conference after, vibrating with frustration, fury at himself. That’s not the kind of basketball he plays.

The next couple games follow the same pattern, him and LaMarcus putting up a fight, scoring decently, but unable to stem the bleeding. Klay watches LaMarcus surpress his winces as his thumb twists against his jersey in the locker room afterwards, his curt answers to the training staff, and he doesn’t know what to do besides give him the space his glower demands. The Grizzlies are clearly feeling good, taking advantage of their sloppiness, the hesitation that creeps in when you haven’t won a game yet. Klay’s trying his hardest to just put his head down, focus on the moment in front of him, take his shots and be aggressive, but the cohesion just isn’t there, nowhere for Klay to turn to. He’s trying to make his own plays, but they’re fragile, easily disrupted, and he’s caught up in his own head, missing wide-open threes and easy lay-ups.

Game 4 — elimination game — feels different. They start out strong, finally putting some stops on Memphis, and Klay can feel his shoulders loosen, a little swagger return to his step. CJ and Meyers are on fire, lighting up the court when they get on the floor, and their energy spreads through the floor. Klay even gets a dunk in at the end of the first quarter, coming off two assists. They’re leading at the end of the first quarter and they hang on to that lead, no one ready to end the season tonight. His passes find their target, assists sliding smoothly through screens. It finally feels like they’re back in it, like a game and not just a mess.

Afterwards, he listens to the cheers of the crowd, soaks up their belief. It’s still 3-1, statistics telling him advancing is almost impossible, but the taste of victory is intoxicating. At the very least, they can go out fighting.

Half an hour after he leaves the post-game media, when he’s sneaking into his house, trying not to wake Rocco, who’s ignoring his six dog beds to sleep sprawled in the entryway, he gets a call. He answers it without looking, mostly to make the noise stop.

“Hey?” he asks, stepping over Rocco’s fat butt.

“Dude!!” comes the voice on the other line, instantly recognizable as Steph. “That was incredible! You guys crushed it. You were on fire.”

“You saw?” Klay asks, voice stupidly soft.

“Of course I watched it. Your run in the second? I could have kept watching all night.”

“It’s still 3-1,” Klay reminds him, reminds himself, a steel dagger in the soft darkness of his house, slicing through the warmth of Steph’s voice.

“You know it’s about the game,” Steph says, “and that was a beautiful game. Feel good, man. You did that.”

Klay does feel good, too good. The sweetness of victory mixes with Steph’s happy voice in his gut, alchemizes into possibility, promise.

“Thanks, Steph,” he says, voice too soft, looking down at Rocco’s gentle wheezes, his tongue lolled out of his mouth. The moonlight’s filtering in through the doorway, scattered over all of Klay’s sneakers. “I’ve been watching you guys — like watching legends, man. Killer.”

Steph laughs, so open with his joy. “It’s been fun,” he admits. “It feels like a new team with Coach Kerr, you know? Like finally we can be what we’re supposed to be.”

“It’s amazing,” Klay agrees.

“Anyway,” Steph says after a second, “I should let you go. You’re probably beat.”

No, Klay almost says, stay. Stay with me. Klay is beat, muscles liquifying and growing heavier every moment, but he doesn’t want to let Steph go, lose the rhythm of his breath, this sweet certainty.

“Yeah,” he says instead. “Thanks for calling. Later.”

“Talk soon,” Steph says, but it sounds like Love you. Probably Steph is usually calling his fam.

Klay keeps that feeling of being wrapped up, being so warmly regarded, as he brushes his teeth, pulls off his pants, slips into bed. As he falls asleep, he imagines Steph, hoodie on, watching him. Calling him. Thinking of him.

They fly back to Memphis the next day for Game 5, everyone skating carefully around the pits in their stomach, the weaknesses the Grizzlies exposed. Klay keeps his headphones in, propping himself up with music to keep the thoughts at bay.

They come out of the tunnel, dark jerseys swamping out into the brightness of the arena. LaMarcus gets the first rebound, sends it over to Klay, and when Klay tries to send it to Nicolas, he fucks up, turns it over to Memphis. He’s furious at himself, and the next ball is stolen from Aaron, sending them into a tailspin. Klay pulls himself out of his own funk, starts making his threes, but it’s not enough. He’s not LeBron; he can’t carry a team on his back. He can make his own plays, but he can’t create them out of thin air for CJ or Meyers.

In the third quarter, Klay starts cutting their lead down, but it’s like swimming through mud, running from a pack of wolves. He’s desperate, trying for every three, every lay-up, but it isn’t enough.

They’ve pulled Memphis’ lead down to three, five minutes left, coming out of a time-out. Klay turns the ball over, and then he has an open shot. He’s being defended, but he’s done it hundreds of time before, one look and clean jump, an easy swish. He sends it, but the clutter in his brain ruins it, and the shot bounces out. That’s it, he knows. End of season. It’s on him.

***

Klay flies back to Portland the next day, numbly furious with himself. He doesn’t watch anything on the plane home, doesn’t listen to music, doesn’t sleep. Just watches the vast flat expanse of land below him, the houses and farms and cities, looking for the rivers, the lakes.

He spends a weekend working out exactly as much as his trainer okays, and spending the rest of the day waiting to work out again. He and Rocco drive out to the coast, and he finds a cottage without no internet and shitty service. They scramble down the rocks, freeze in the waves, do pushups under the firs.

When he gets back home, he has thirty-six texts in his family group chat, a pile of newspapers in front of his door, and the Warriors are down 1-2 against Memphis in the Western Conference Semi-Finals.

He doesn’t really respond to any of that information, just tries to keep the fragile equilibrium he built by listening to only the pounding waves. He eats a gummy, watches some documentary about the ocean. He’s not ready for people yet. He gets higher than he meant to; he always forgets how a season without weed fucks up his tolerance. A few hours later he’s floating, unable to focus on anything but the texture of his fleece blanket.  
He’s in bed at eleven, thinking idly of jerking off. He’s pretty sure he can get through it without picturing his missed shot. He has a few tabs open, sitting up in bed, when his computer starts ringing. FaceTime from Steph Curry.

He clicks accept on instinct. He remembers those long nights in that stupid hotel, the impossibility of sleep and the frustration of circling thoughts.  
It’s Steph in the hotel, sure enough, but he doesn’t look wan or defeated. He’s holding his phone so Klay can mostly only see his plush lips, the hollow of his throat, the definition of his bare shoulders. As soon as Klay appears on screen, his mouth broadens, a big grin appearing. “Klay!” he says, as though it’s unexpected. “You picked up!!”

“What’s up?” Klay asks, still a little discombobulated.

“Dray took me out to this amazing place, Klay. Memphis is so fun, I ate _ribs_ and _cheese fries with gumbo_ and _fried catfish._ You would have loved it.”

“And you drank?” Klay guesses. Steph gestured as he talked, the phone slipping down to show his smooth chest, the cut of his hipbones.

Steph laughs, and he’s opening his mouth when there’s a loud, distinctly masculine moan. “Christ,” a guy says, “give it to me, yeah, harder.”

“That’s right,” says another fucking male voice. “Good boy, take it.” Klay’s frozen, mind spinning frantic but blank, but he sees Steph’s mouth drop open at the good boy, realizes it’s coming from his fucking computer, one of his tabs. He tries to get there, so panicked he can’t control his fingers, these fucking dudes not shutting up for a second, the distinct sound of skin slapping against skin. He finally quits his browser, but the silence might be worse, Steph staring at Klay, Klay unable to look straight at him.

“Uh,” Klay says. “Sor–”

“You’re – ” Steph manages.

“Uh,” Klay repeats. “Yeah. I’m. Gay.”

Steph’s clearly wasted, his reaction time shot. Klay can see all the stages of him digesting that news, from incomprehension to shock to a poor attempt at a neutral face.

“That’s what you were watching? Before I called?” he asks.

“I hadn’t started watching it,” Klay says. He’s really not sure what he’s trying to make better. “But I’d. Opened it.”

“Oh,” Steph says. He bites at a hangnail, looking at Klay, and Klay really wishes he had a shirt on as Steph’s gaze lingers on the hair on his chest. “That’s. I’m fine with. It’s. Cool.”

“I don’t really tell a lot of people,” Klay says.

“Sorry,” Steph says, actually looking contrite.

“I don’t mind tell—you knowing,” Klay says. To his surprise, he means it. He trusts Steph, stupidly.

Steph smiles, soft, morning light filtering through the fog. “Cool.”

Klay can’t look at Steph’s face anymore, looks past his shoulder at the ugly abstract painting above him. Something about the thick black lines and splashes of red clicks in his mind, reminding him of his his unreasonable annoyance with it as he returned to his room each night. “I remember that painting! 708, right?”

Steph looks inexplicably astounded. There’s not that many rooms they put NBA players in. “Yeah,” he manages.

“Seems like you’re having a better time in it than I did.”

Steph has set his phone against something in the bed, turning it sideways. His whole torso is glowing in the lamplight, like a marble statue come to life. He’s biting his lip, his mouth parted, his eyes huge under mussed curls.

It was stupid of Klay to even try porn, when there’s this.

“Yeah,” Steph manages. “What have you been up to?”

It’s the question he’s been avoiding from everyone, but it doesn't sting so much, coming from Steph. From Steph, it sounds like an honest plea to promise there’s a world outside of the court, that as much as it feels like it, his world doesn’t actually depend on what happens in those 90 minutes tomorrow night.

Klay tells him about the cottage, sunrise over the inlet, sunset over the ocean. About how foggy it was, Rocco getting so confused one morning he sat down on the path, refused to move.

Klay drifts off sometime after Steph describes the band that played where he and Dray were, tunelessly attempting to imitate the sax until Klay was laughing so hard he woke up Rocco. He wakes up once, thinks he hears Steph’s breathing over the line for a second, falls back asleep.

***

The summer settles into a routine. Klay watches every finals game, cheers, alone on his couch, when the Warriors pull it out against Memphis, make it into the Western Conference Finals. His agent talks to him about free agency; his trainer talks to him about conditioning; his mom talks to him about when he’s coming back down to LA.

Klay mostly talks to Rocco.

He watches the Warriors battle against the might of LeBron in the finals. On the third night, 40 points for LeBron, Warriors caught up in the dragnet, he texts Steph, impulsively, a picture of Rocco in a yellow t-shirt, a royal blue baseball hat on his head. He has to put it on eight times to grab a pic before Rocco shakes it off, furious, but it’s worth it.

Steph texts him hours later, midnight in Ohio.

_Dudeeeee thank u somuch_  
_I showed it to Dray hr loved it!!!?!_  
_ Were so honored tht roccos rooting for US_  
_ When am i gonna get to meet him_

_Whenever you want  
He loves to slobber on new people_

_KLAYTOHMSOPN UR SO COOL!!!!!! UR SUCH A GOOOOOOOOPPOOD DOG DAD ADN BASKETALL PLSYER LETS HANG OUT _  
❤️❤️🤓💕💖🤓😍😍🐶🐶🐶💖💖💖💖 ❤💛💚💙💜  
_Sorry!!  
That was dray hahsha hes a dick_

Steph sends a pic. It’s a sloppy selfie, him and Dray on a hotel bed, an empty bottle of wine between them. Steph’s laughing, his eyes crinkled up, his t-shirt loose around his neck, a hint of stubble in the low light. Dray’s drunk too, but he’s looking straight at the camera, his eyes surprisingly lucid.

_Its okay don’t worry abt it  
Glad u guys are having fun_

_It worked last time!!!!! But cleavelands boring so were just in the hotel_  
_This wine is GOOD usually i dont like it so much!!_  
_ Irs pink_

_You’re gonna crush it  
So fun to watch you play_

_Keep wathcing !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_  
Well make it good for u

***

Steph keeps his promise. The next night’s unbelievable, the whole team working seamlessly, spectacularly. They keep LeBron to twenty points, one stop after another, every single player playing their part perfectly. Klay’s entranced by Steph, obviously, but Andre Igoudala’s field goals, Draymond’s assists, Sean Livingston’s defense are captivating. Klay can’t look away. They win by over 20, Steph shimmying off the court. It’s the kind of game he watched as a kid, imagining himself there.

The next two games are more of the same. LeBron rebounds back to forty points, but the Warriors are unfazed. The chain’s unbroken, each link holding strong.

Klay wears a yellow shirt for every game. So does Rocco.

When they win, crowned champions, Klay isn’t even jealous. He wishes he was on the court, but he’s just grateful he got to watch something so magnificent. He texts Steph, a string of trophies and confetti, a couple suns thrown in.

He doesn’t expect anything back, but he gets _see u soon!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

***

It’s two weeks of a holding pattern. Klay tells Chris to schedule the Warriors first, but he refuses to think about what it means. He can’t psych himself out, can’t have too many expectations.

July 1st is a perfect Portland day, puffs of white cotton balls floating in the bluest sky you can imagine. Klay takes Rocco on a long walk, showers, tries on a few pairs of jeans. Waits.

He knows Steve Kerr is coming at noon. By 11:55, he’s sitting on the door, breathing steadily, treats in his pocket to bribe Rocco. His agent, who knows him, is silent on the other couch.

The door rings at 11:58, and he opens it. Steve Kerr is on his doorstep, looking as placid he did during All-Star practice. Behind him, toes tapping, big smile, is Steph Curry.

“Hi guys,” he manages. “I didn’t know Steph was coming.”

“He was asking me so many questions, I told him to just come along,” Steve says, and Steph bites his lip a little.

Klay’s completely unprepared for the visual of Steph Curry in his house, sitting on his couch, petting his dog, but he doesn’t really have any other options.

Klay steps back, and as they walk into his house, Rocco trots up and beelines to Steph, giving him a happy sniff and trying to investigate his pocket. Klay tries not to think about the obvious symbolism.

Steph takes something out of his pocket, smiling bashfully. “I brought a few treats – I hope that’s okay.”

Rocco’s about to expire with joy as Steph scritches his head. “Course,” Klay says, then looks at Steve. “Can I get you guys something to drink?”

On the couch, Klay and Chris facing Steph and Steve Kerr, Steve settles his hands on his lap, looking straight at Klay. Klay expects some platitudes, a little politeness, but when Steve opens his mouth, there’s no bullshit.

“You’re not playing the best basketball you could be playing. I want to see what you can do when your teammates are pushing you to be better, not depending on you. Don’t you?”

Chris leans forward, ready to defend him, but Klay raises his hand. Klay’s not interested in flattery; he likes basketball. He likes working hard to be his best.

“And you guys are where the best basketball is?”

Steve looks steady, not dignifying it with a response. Steph fiddles with his fingers, and Klay can imagine the championship ring sitting heavy on his slim fingers.

“What do you want from me?” Klay asks.

“We need someone who can take the load on defense while being a killer shooter. You’re our first choice, but there’s others we could settle for.” Klay nods; he expects that. “But mostly, I think you and Steph could be the best backcourt in basketball. Don’t you want to go down in history?”

Klay thinks about the street named after his dad in the Bahamas, about that first championship with the Lakers. He thinks about playing second fiddle; he thinks about playing second fiddle to Steph. He pictures himself on the court, off the court.

“You’re a good salesman,” Klay admits. Steve laughs, shark sharp.

***

They talk more about the specifics, a contract for his agent to look over, the works. They talk about college basketball and training schedules, how Steve sees the future of the team. Steph doesn’t talk too much, interjecting when Steve leaves him space, but mostly he’s watching. At four, everyone’s pretty exhausted, Steve gathering up his papers and screeners, getting ready to go back to his hotel.

“Wanna get dinner?” Klay asks Steph, as Steve and Chris talk.

Steph beams at him. “I’d love to.”

Klay takes Steph to his favorite Thai place, a fifteen minute walk through big houses and blooming roses. Steph’s looking around, taking everything in: the blue of the sky, the late afternoon daze, the way Klay pauses at his favorite house, the eruption of pink and yellow and red roses reminding him of his mom’s garden in Portland.

Steph had asked, a little shy, if he could hold Rocco’s leash, and Rocco’s leading Steph along, Steph indulgent at hydrants and generous with pets. The sun is bathing them both in golden light, and Klay can’t look too close without being slammed by a tsunami of desire, knocking him out of breath.

A little shiba is walking towards them, and she lunges at Rocco, barking. Rocco, always a little slow on the uptake, takes a second but pulls Steph towards her, and Klay has to grab Steph’s hand on the leash, yank him back. He and the purple-haired girl holding the shiba exchange apologetic smiles. His hand completely covers Steph’s, fingers interlaced, and Klay can’t feel anything but that pressure.

“Sorry,” Steph says, when the shiba’s down the street and Rocco’s sniffing a tree’s roots, neither of them having moved.

“Not your fault,” Klay tells him. Steph glances at their hands, and Klay peels his fingers off, finally.

The rest of the walk is quiet.

***

The Thai place is empty, Klay’s corner of the patio free, space for Rocco to sleep in the sunshine by the table. Klay orders for them, and they’re chatting idly about whether Lebron’s in Cleveland for good when a couple pause on the sidewalk by their table, looking too close. Klay’s starting to grimace, but they don’t seem to notice him, looking straight at Steph.

Steph looks back, easy smile on his face.

“Ohmygod, are you Steph Curry?” the girl asks, and Steph chuckles. “He made me watch all the games! At first I was like, ugh, but I got into it. He’s from the Bay. He cried when you guys won.”

“Babe,” her boyfriend says. “C’mon. I didn’t cry.”

“I did,” Steph says, and everyone laughs, Klay included. “I’m glad you guys got to watch. Thanks for recruiting a new fan, man,” he says, reaching over to shake their hands.

“Um,” the girl says, twirling her red hair around a finger. “Could we get, like, a picture?”

“I’m trying to keep it kinda quiet I’m in Portland,” Steph says. “Would you mind not posting it? You can text it to whoever, but keep it off Instagram or whatever. You know how basketball twitter is.”

The guy nods, rubbing his hand over his locs. “My brother’s gonna be so jealous. He sent me so many pics from the parade. Pretty sure he can barely remember it though.”

“Same,” Steph says. “Lotta champagne.”

Klay takes the girl’s phone and snaps a couple pics. The guy looks at him close, trying to place him, and Klay winks, surprised at himself. The guy nods back.

They thank Steph again and walk away, pressed up into each other, bubbling over with joy.

***

Klay’s not ready to say bye to Steph, so when they get the check back, he offers, trying to be offhand, “There’s a great beer garden around the corner.”

“Awesome,” Steph says, and they drift over. The guy in the hardware store walks out to give Rocco a treat from the counter, and he collapses on the sidewalk, delighted. He won’t come when Klay tugs, just lolls his tongue out farther, onto the sidewalk. Klay gives up, scoops him up into his arms. It’s good conditioning, at least.

Klay carries him through the bar to the patio out back, shaking his head the whole time. “You’re very spoiled, you know,” he says, and Steph laughs, reaches over to rub Rocco’s ears, his pinkie brushing against Klay’s chest, forearm against Klay’s inner arm.

A few rounds in, Steph is lounging on the bench, spread out and smiling, the sunlight through the leaves above him dappling his face. All around them is verdant, drenched in green from spring rains, and Steph’s eyes feel more vivid than usual, like he’s another plant blooming rapidly.

“Would you really be chill with a gay guy in your locker room?” Klay asks.

Steph startles, almost choking on his beer. “Did I do something—not cool? I’m not. I don’t care.”

“Everyone thinks they don’t care,” Klay says. He didn’t tell anyone at the Blazers; just seemed easier not to.

“I’ve never. Known someone before who was,” Steph admits.

“You can say _gay_, Steph. It’s not a bad word.”

Steph blushes. “Someone who was gay.” He gets the word out, barely.

“You probably just didn’t know,” Klay tells him, blunt.

“Probably,” Steph says. He takes a deep breath; Klay stays quiet. “I’m not, you know. I don’t have a lot of experience with this stuff. Gay stuff. But I think Coach wasn’t lying when he said we could be the best backcourt in the NBA. And I want to play with you. I think we’ll fit together.”

Klay’s not sure what to say in response, so he keeps quiet.

“I’m gonna get another round, you want one?” Steph asks, and Klay nods.

He watches Steph walk away, the smooth sway of his hips. The way he glances at Klay, just for a second, as he turns towards the door. He can visualize the curve of his back, how his ass would feel against Klay’s hips. The way Klay could ruin everything.

***

They end up back at Klay’s. Klay doesn’t know what Steph’s waiting for, what he’s trying to do tonight, but Klay’s hoarding this closeness, Steph looking happily at the pink clouds of the sunset, laughing so hard beer drips out the side of his mouth, moaning around a french fry. He knows how fragile it is, that it’ll shatter as soon as he mentions it.

Steph’s standing in his kitchen while Klay gets them water, poking through his junk counter and tunelessly humming. He’s completely absorbed in it, studying Rocco’s certificate from doggie school, a postcard from his brother, a little stuffed cougar Washington State sent him during a fundraising drive. His fingers are long as he turns the postcard over, and Klay lets him read it, doesn’t even want to pull it away. Klay realizes, all at once, that he’s going to sign with the Warriors, and that he wants Steph in his house forever. Wants it to be their house.

The two revelations hit him together, stunning him temporarily. He knows he can’t have that with Steph; Steph’s straight: he wants a wife in the stands, kids at home, not Klay and his dog. His failure there can be private, something to knuckle his way through. But he could fail the Warriors too. Klay’s never been on a championship team, and he knows he could do it, could bring his all, but what if he can’t? What if they don’t win again, and it’s his fault, dissected everywhere, a rare Steve Kerr fuck up.

He’s filling a cup at the fridge, doesn’t realize it’s overflowing until the cold water hits his hand, and he startles, pulling back. He can’t sign on the Warriors if he wants that with Steph; he knows, without a doubt, that he’s going to sign.

There’s only one way to ruin both futures in one fell swoop.

He puts the glasses down, walks over to Steph. Steph looks up, surprised at the closeness, and Klay kisses him.

Klay’s not sure when Steph’s freakout will come: at the first kiss, when they get naked, the next morning, the plane ride home. But he knows it’ll come, and Klay can find another team, try to move on.

Steph’s lips part in a gasp, and Klay bites at his plush lower lip, slides his hand up to Steph’s hair. He’s not holding back, all his desperation right there on the surface. Steph’s hands are still frozen at his side, but his mouth is soft and open, his body curving like a crescent moon into Klay. Klay rubs his thumb on Steph’s neck, right below his ear, and Steph makes a tiny noise, lists closer to Klay, chests bumping.

One night. He can survive what happens after.

They shift around, slowly, so Klay’s pressing Steph into the counter, leaning down to kiss him. Steph brings a tentative hand up to Klay’s arm, wraps around tight. Klay can feel the calluses on his fingertips and it makes him lightheaded, makes him tighten his grip on Steph’s hip. Steph smiles into the kiss, slides his hand up Klay’s arm to his shoulder, pulls him even closer in.

It’s like high school, Klay unbearably hard just from kissing, from getting to feel Steph’s hipbone, his sharp inhale of breath when Klay’s thumb dips beneath the hem of his shirt. It’s the tiniest patch of skin, smooth and hidden, and Klay wants to kneel right there in the kitchen, press reverent, open-mouthed kisses.

Instead, he forces himself to pull away, scrape out “Bed?” from the wreckage of his throat. Steph’s eyes grow huge, his mouth like a tropical greenhouse, wet and lush. Klay had imagined how he would look, thoroughly kissed, but the reality is so far beyond anything he pictured.

Steph’s chin dips, a tiny nod, and Klay has to kiss him again before he starts pulling Steph towards his bedroom, one hand around his wrist. His fingers wrap perfectly around Steph’s delicate, divine wrists, thumb rubbing at his pulse point. Klay could spend days studying the different shades of brown on his arms: the wrinkles of his knuckles, the blue veins underneath the thin skin of his wrist, the shadows of his biceps.

He has to keep moving forward, can’t look at Steph a half-step behind him, breathing already ragged. As they walk into the doorway of Klay’s room, Steph pauses, feet going still. Klay steels himself, preparing for Steph to come to his senses, to bolt. That was the point.

He turns back, wanting to get one last look at Steph before it all comes crashing down. Steph’s staring at him, game face on, and as soon as their eyes meet, Steph is pulling him in, a hand sliding up to the nape of his neck. Steph kisses like he shoots, all shock and awe, and Klay stops trying to defend, lets himself be consumed.

They end up on the bed, Klay bracing himself above Steph on his elbows, trying to ignore his pink pink mouth so he can kiss his neck, his jaw, a nip at his earlobe. Steph is sighing below him, offering up his throat, following Klay’s lead like Klay has any idea what he’s doing. After too long away, Steph makes a little complaining noise, and then another, happier, when Klay returns to his mouth, tongues slipping and teeth biting. They’re still fully clothed, but Steph’s hand is slipping up Klay’s t-shirt, reaching like he doesn’t know what he’s looking for, just wants.

Steph pushes up Klay’s t-shirt, sighs when their bare stomachs finally come together. Klay can feel Steph’s dick, hard in his jeans; he slides his thigh, just a little, to brush it, and Steph melts, murmuring “Klay,” three syllables, higher at the end. It’s the best thing Klay’s ever heard.

Klay grinds into Steph, unable to resist, and Steph’s hand falls from Klay’s hair to rest above his head, his whole body one perfect curve as he arches into Klay. Steph makes a needy noise, too sweet, until Klay kisses him again, keeps grinding down on him.

Their shirts are off, pants barely hanging on, and Klay wants everything: to kiss him and suck him and fuck him, lick him clean and start again, teach Steph how to finger him, fall apart riding Steph’s dick. He tries to focus, to be realistic, but Steph’s mouth is obscene, and he brings his hand up to Steph’s face, runs his thumb along Steph’s pouting lip until Steph licks it, pulls it in, soft wet heat and sharp pressure.

“Suck me off?” Klay asks, stupidly honest, desperate. Either he’ll go up in flames or this will. He slides his thumb out of Steph’s mouth to stroke his cheek, closes his eyes and waits for the eruption.

He opens them after a second of silence. Steph’s gaping at him, but Klay can feel his dick jerk against Klay’s thigh, and he doesn’t look mad, just shocked. “I’ve been thinking about your mouth all year,” Klay admits, biting his own lip.

“Oh,” Steph says, hand tightening on Klay’s back, between his shoulder blades. “You have?” His breathing is unsteady, his hips rocking back and forth.

Klay nods, bites Steph’s neck for a little cover, a break from looking into his wide, trusting eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, sliding up the side of his neck towards his jaw. “Wanna try it?”

Klay can feel Steph’s nod, a half beat later, and then another pause. Klay’s about to take it back, slide down and suck Steph off like he should have in the first place, when Steph flips them over, breath coming fast and shallow as he presses himself, cobra-style, above Klay. His cheeks are flushed, his arms shaking, but he’s staring down at Klay, clearly determined to do this. He slides down Klay’s body, kisses the hair on his stomach, hands careful on Klay’s hips. “You good?” Klay asks, and Steph replies with a hard, sucking bite on Klay’s lower belly. “Jesus, Steph,” he chokes out, and Steph scrapes his teeth along the bite. When Klay manages to lift his head up to look down, Steph’s smugly smiling, a stupid lil shimmy dancing across his shoulders.

Steph can’t figure out how to get off Klay’s pants while kneeling between his thighs, and Klay ends up laughing, pants halfway down his thighs, Steph tangled up in his legs. He lifts his hips, nudges Steph to outside his thighs, and is pulling his jeans off when Steph slides underneath his hands, pulls off his jeans and then his boxers, stroking his thumb against the inside of Klay’s thighs as he does it.

The room feels very quiet all of a sudden, Klay’s harsh breaths loud, the air cold on his bare skin. He still doesn’t know how much longer this could possibly go on, until something reminds Steph what he’s doing. He’s totally exposed, looking at Steph, who’s looking at Klay’s dick, expression hard to read.

Steph brings a tentative hand up to wrap around Klay’s dick, and Klay has to bite his lip against all the shit that’s trying to spill out. It feels unbelievably good, his grip too loose as he curls his fingers, but tightening as Klay jerks his hips, helpless. “Good?” Steph asks, sounding a little unsure, but hopeful.

“A little tighter,” Klay gasps, and when Steph gives it to him, that perfect pressure, he groans, hand tightening on the bedsheets. Steph smiles, and Klay manages to keep his eyes open and his head up as Steph ducks down with his mouth open, trying to memorize the sight. But at the first touch of Steph’s mouth, more breath than anything else, Klay’s head falls back, sight and sound whiting out in deference to the feeling.

Steph’s a little nervous, trying things out carefully. It’s nothing like Steph on court, an arrow flying straight to the target, but Klay loves it, loves the ways he concentrates at the head, works his hand, pushes himself to go a little deeper each time he bobs his head. Klay slides one hand to Steph’s curls, and Klay can feel him relax against Klay’s body. Steph’s hand on Klay’s hip loosens as he arches his back to Klay’s hand. Steph sucks him down deeper, stays a little longer, and Klay doesn’t push but he leaves his hand there, solid, heavy.

“Christ, Steph,” Klay says, voice like sandpaper, and Steph hums, pleased, pushes his head into Klay’s hand a little. Klay tightens his grip, curved around Steph’s skull, and Steph shudders, slides down again like he can’t bear to not have Klay’s dick in his mouth.

Klay forces himself back up on his elbow to look at Steph, needs to be able to picture it later. Steph’s cheeks are hollowed, his eyes shut, long lashes stark against his cheek. Klay can see the muscles of his shoulders, shadowy in the late evening light, his beautiful cheekbones. He was right; it is a good replacement for the fucking mouthguard.

He can’t last much longer, Steph pushing himself to his limit, having to take rabbit-quick breaths when he comes up but always sliding back down, his mouth slick and red, bruised. Wrecked. He flicks his tongue and Klay pulls his hair, chokes out a breath, overcome by sensation. “Fuuuuck,” he breathes, and Steph does it again, exploring more and more, a tiny scrape of teeth and a long slide of tongue, until Klay just needs a little tight, hot pressure, Steph’s sweet mouth. He lets his hand grow heavy on Steph’s head, admits “I’m close,” and Steph goes down readily. Klay pushes his hips up, just a little, and he can feel the vibrations as Steph makes a noise. It’s enough to push him over the edge, and he comes, eyes shut, other hand squeezing down on Steph’s shoulder, totally gone.

When he opens his eyes, Steph’s wiping off a bit of come from the corner of his mouth, and Klay’s head falls back on his pillow, eyes rolling up to the ceiling. Fucking hell. He drags Steph back up to him to kiss him, messy, lavish. Steph makes a sound of surprise at the first press of tongue, and Klay swallows it, slides his hands down to shove at Steph’s jeans, too uncoordinated to unbutton them. Steph is wriggling, trying to get out of his jeans, to touch Klay all over, but he stills when Klay rolls them over, lets himself press the heavy weight of his lax muscles down on Steph. Steph’s hands come up to Klay’s shoulders, and Klay follows a hunch, gathers his wrists with one hand and presses them above Steph’s head.

It’s unbelievable, the way Steph shudders, how loose his body goes. His dick must be aching in his jeans, but he’s perfectly still, staring up at Klay. Klay kisses him again, hand tight around his wrists, sliding his thigh more firmly against Steph’s dick. “Your fucking mouth, Steph,” Klay tells him, barely an inch of space between their lips, and Steph arches his back, mewls. Klay’s not usually much of a talker, but Steph responds so desperately to every word, Klay can tell how much he needs it, wants to see how far he can push him. “Couldn’t stop thinking about it, every time you popped your stupid mouthguard out and back in. Jesus.” Steph whines as Klay rocks his thigh up against him, and Klay tells him, “Keep your hands right there, alright?”

Steph nods frantically, eyes wide, and Klay takes his time dragging his hand down the thin skin of his inner arm, stroking his muscles and feeling Steph tense, keeping himself still. He gets to Steph’s face and hooks one finger into his mouth, tugging just a little, Steph gasping beneath him. He pinches Steph’s nipple: Steph’s whole back bows off the bed until Klay puts his hand in the center of Steph’s chest, pushes down. He traces each rib, his ridiculous six-pack, the sharp cut of the v of his hips. He doesn’t let himself look away from whatever he’s focused on, but listens to Steph’s cut-off moans, watches the way his stomach tenses and begins to shake when Klay uses a little bit of nail.

Finally, finally, he pops the button of Steph’s jeans, slides them down over his ass, revealing his thighs inch by inch. He savors each freckle, the strength in his lean muscles, all the little details usually hidden by his leggings. When he finally looks up, Steph just in boxers, Steph’s staring down at him with blurry eyes, hands still above his head. It’s too much to handle, the intensity of his gaze, how open he is. He thinks for a second about Dray, telling him that Steph was too trusting, and he has to kiss Steph’s thigh, sweet, as he settles between his legs. Steph makes a high noise that could almost be Klay’s name, lets his thighs fall open around Klay’s shoulders. Klay leans down, sucks the head of Steph’s dick, hard, through his boxers, one hand pressing his hip down, the other tracing lines on his inner thigh. Steph cries out, and Klay pulls back, satisfied.

He pulls Steph out through the front of his boxers. It’s pretty, just like he imagined, nice and straight and just thick enough.

“Klay,” Steph begs, “Klay, Klay, Klay.” Klay looks up, and Steph’s chest is heaving, his arms shaking, fists clenching and unclenching. Klay pulls himself back up to kiss Steph, lean a little weight on his arms, pull him back to Earth. Steph untenses underneath him, shoulders lowering, and Klay slides a hand down to his dick.

“God, Steph,” he says as he starts to jerk him off, addicted to the way Steph gives himself up even more with every word, “fucking perfect. Your mouth. Keeping your hands right there. So good.” Steph keens, and Klay has to kiss him so he won’t say anything irreparably stupid.  
He keeps playing with Steph, slides his hand down to his ass, just to squeeze over his boxers. Steph cants his hips frantically, can’t decide which hand he needs more, so Klay keeps touching, lets his fingers drift, Steph’s noises getting more frantic the closer he gets. Klay twists his wrist, slides his thumb over the head, and squeezes his ass, middle finger almost brushing what he knows Steph needs. Steph’s whole body is pulled taut like a tightrope, right on the edge. Klay takes a gamble, whispers “Good boy,” low and rough, right into Steph’s ear, and Steph comes with a cry.

Klay strokes him through it, come on both their stomachs, Steph shaking beneath him. He gently tugs on Steph’s wrists, breaking the spell, and Steph pulls them to drape limply around Klay’s shoulders. Steph’s mouth is slack, and Klay presses kisses to his mouth, his cheek, lets himself press one soft kiss to his closed eye, feeling his lashes. Steph murmurs at that, so Klay kisses the other eyelid, then returns to his plush bottom lip.

Klay’s too wrecked to deepen the kiss, so mostly they just breathe together, come going sticky between them, Klay following the rhythm of Steph’s chest rising and falling. The sun’s set by now, and the big tree outside his window is shadowy and close, blocking them off from the rest of the world, just for tonight. Steph slowly slides his hand to Klay’s, interlaces them, and Klay tries to suppress his shudder. Fine tremors are still coursing through Steph’s body every so often, and each time one does, Klay strokes his thumb against Steph’s ribcage, marvelling at his bones and what they protect.

Eventually, Klay can’t ignore how much he needs to pee. He pulls away, and Steph makes a scrunched-up face at the feeling of dried come pulling apart. “Sorry,” Klay says, “one sec.” He walks to the bathroom, doesn’t shut the door fully as he closes it, pees and grabs a washcloth, runs it under warm water. When he gets back, Steph’s curled up on himself, and he doesn’t notice Klay until he gets back on the bed, gently pulls him onto his back so he can clean him up.  
Steph’s still curled up, eyes closed, and Klay has to maneuver around his legs to wipe him off, tries to do it nicely but quickly, because Steph’s not relaxing under his touch. “You okay?” he forces himself to say, terrified of the answer.

Steph doesn’t say anything, just nods, one hand still on his knee where it’s pulled up to his chest. Klay wipes himself off perfunctorily, then lies next to Steph, not sure if he should pull him closer or give him space. He’s been with guys who couldn’t handle the afterglow, dressed before Klay’s breathing had returned to normal; he’s trying to prepare himself for that, take every extra moment as more than he expected. He slides his hand, tentative, to Steph’s knee, overlapping their fingers, and Steph unfurls like a flower, curls himself around Klay instead.  
There’s too many words jammed into Klay’s throat, _please _and _sorry_ and three words he can’t stop thinking, so instead he just listens to the crickets coming in through the open window, strokes Steph’s back. Steph drifts off, and Klay follows him, still feeling lost.

***

The morning light is grey, but still bright, as Klay slowly opens his eyes. He rolls over, stretching, and sees Steph standing by the foot of the bed, shimmying on his jeans, looking at Klay.

Klay realizes a lot of things at once. He and Steph hooked up last night; Steph was trying to sneak out; Klay’s completely naked, sheet tangled up around his shins. Klay can feel his chest crack and his stomach drop, and he sets his face as he pulls the sheet up past his dick.

“Um, hi,” Steph says, nervous. “My flight? I didn’t want to wake you up too early. I was gonna try and. Make breakfast first?”

“It’s fine,” Klay says. What a weird lie; Steph’s probably not used to a one night stand, doesn’t know it’s fine to get out of there once it’s done.

“Okay,” Steph says. He’s still looking at Klay, and Klay wishes he would look away, let Klay breathe for a second.

“You can go get your flight,” Klay tells him. “It’s cool.”

Steph glances down, probably looking for his shirt. Klay remembers pulling it off last night, can see the faintest red mark from where Klay bit down on the meat of his shoulder. “Yeah?” he says, still hesitant.

“Your shirt’s by the window,” Klay tells him. He feels like he’s going to puke.

Steph huffs out a laugh, walks over to grab it. Klay grabs his own thigh under the sheet so he doesn’t reach out to touch Steph, the beautiful curve of his spine disappearing under his t-shirt.  
Steph’s just standing there, backlit by the morning light, everything Klay’s ever wanted close enough to touch, but not his. Klay’s gonna need a new bed, a new house, a whole new fucking life, and still, this’ll be all he sees when he closes his eyes.

“I’ll text you,” Klay forces himself to say. He lets himself look out the window past Steph, to where the branches of his tree are straining towards the sun.

Steph takes a half step towards him, and Klay doesn’t move a muscle besides his fingers, digging tighter into his thigh. Steph brings his hand up in front of him, and then, after a second, slides it into his pocket. “Cool,” he says. “I’ll. Get an Uber now. For the flight.”

Klay nods, stupidly. Steph’s lips are still pink and swollen from last night, and Klay wants to kiss him endlessly, press him down onto the bed, drive him to the airport and not let him go.

“I think I’ve got another meeting today,” he says. The moment is stretching out like taffy, and it’s clogging up all the spaces inside Klay, gumming up the works. He needs it to snap, needs to start gathering up all his longing, box it away safely so it doesn’t stick in his throat and behind his eyes.

Steph nods, eyes wide but chin determined. “Gotcha. Well. I’ll go. Thanks?”

“See you,” Klay says. He watches Steph walk away, hears Rocco’s happy bark turning into a whine and the closing of the front door.

Klay lets himself sit in bed for a second. It’s like he turned his back on the ocean and got smacked by a wave, tumbled around, and now he’s sitting in the sand, coughing up seawater and trying to remember which way is up.

After a couple of minutes of humiliating misery, Rocco trots in, jumps onto the bed. Klay pets him, autopilot, and the familiar, beloved weight of his head on Klay’s thigh grounds him, lets him remember how to breathe, in rhythm with Rocco. After a second, he levers himself out of bed, goes to pull on shorts and a t-shirt. As he’s grabbing socks out of his dresser, he glances down at his hamper, sees Steph’s boxers, neatly folded and come-stained, slid under Klay’s tank top from yesterday.

Klay has to sit down on the bed to try and catch his breath. It doesn’t work, but he puts on his socks anyway.

He forces himself to go through the motions of regular life, feed Rocco and drink a protein shake — it makes him nauseas, but that’s not a big surprise right now — and then, finally, he can pull on his running shoes and just fucking bolt. He runs towards Forest Park, weaving around strollers and leashes, not pacing himself like he should, just trying to leave his aching heart behind.

The park is full of joggers and families, but Klay avoids the big trails, steers himself up a muddy ridge until his quads are burning enough to rival his eyes. He replays the moment, waking up naked to Steph getting dressed, until the sting is dulled, the smack of a football instead of the sting of a BB gun.

It wasn’t that Steph was leaving. It was that Klay had honestly thought that he might stay, hoped in a way he hadn’t hoped since sophomore year, since Aaron. His mind tries to skip past it, but he forces himself to think through it chronologically. How fantastically happy he was to be dating him; the days they spent camping and hiking, stuff that felt romantic at the time, that only after did Klay realize was also stuff where no one else would see them. Coming out to his family before they came to visit, just so he could take Aaron to dinner with them. How often Aaron went home, but how he’d always bring sea glass back from the beach for Klay.

And then, walking to practice on the first warm day of March, getting a text from that softball girl from last semester's psych discussion section that just said “thought you should see this.” Clicking on the post and it was a random girl’s Facebook album at a music festival, but Aaron was there, and he didn’t have any sisters, didn’t mention going to any festival recently.

Then he saw the ring on her finger, Aaron on one knee in the next photo in the album, and his heart collapsed in on itself, becoming cold marble, sinking like a statue on a shipwrecked boat. He clicked through to her profile, and saw picture after picture of Aaron: her and Aaron apple picking, at the rocky beach Aaron sent him pictures of, Aaron Aaron Aaron with no end in sight, until he got to a fucking photo of them kissing at prom.

He’d had her the whole time. From the moment Klay kissed him in the shadowy backyard, tucked away from the party, till the fucking _Have fun at practice babe_ text Klay’d just gotten, he’d had a real girlfriend, now a fucking _fiancée_, and Klay had just been. A joke, an experiment, someone gullible enough. Everything had suddenly added up, all the signs there if Klay had only looked a little harder, but he hadn’t, hadn’t wanted to, just wanted to believe that Aaron really loved him.

He spent two weeks putting himself back together, ignoring Aaron’s calls and texts and pounding knocks on his door, driving his car over the sea glass until nothing was left but dust, drinking vodka on the couch and getting high in his car, long hours at the gym. Increased his deadlift forty pounds, so that was a plus.

And he’s been fine since then. His college friends don’t mention Aaron; his mom doesn’t ask about dates; he fucks guys at night and one of them’s gone by morning. He’s an NBA shooting guard, a free agent in demand. But he feels like he’s straight back in sophomore year right now, like he hasn’t learned at all.

From the moment on the little court in the snow with Steph, Klay knew he was skating on thin ice, that he wanted the same stupid, impossible shit that he wanted with Aaron. And he knows he just made it worse with FaceTimes and texts and too-tender touches. But at least Steph had the decency to make it clear what he really wanted and not lead him on. Eventually, Klay will stop thinking about Steph, get back to being fine. Stop thinking about the noises he made and the softness of his lips, the way Klay kissed him like he wanted forever, his green eyes staring up trustingly at Klay and how Klay thought that meant anything.

He plunges his foot into a puddle, not looking where he’s going, and has to yank his shoe out. Mud’s caking the mesh, leaking through his sock. The shock of cold knocks him out of his spiral, grounds him back in the here and now. There’s a certain satisfaction to the mess, familiar outside dirt, unlike the lingering stickiness on his stomach he’s trying not to think about. He makes himself start running again, doing sprints until he can’t think of anything but moving forward.

He pauses, chest heaving, at the water tower, leaning against it with his head thrown back, face up to the dull uniform clouds.

He’s burned off the oppressive wax layer of humiliation, and he can be a little more objective as he starts his long descent down. This is what he wanted: he’ll go to another team, keep playing against Steph, have something to think about when he jerks off, and inch by inch his heart will knit itself back together, stronger like a broken bone. He does another long loop around the park at a calmer pace, hemming in all his frayed edges, patching up the gaping holes with sloppy stitches. Putting his memories of Aaron back in their carefully-stored box in the back of his head.

By the time he gets back to his house, the sun’s shining through the clouds, light still diffused but stronger. Klay’s covered with sweat, thighs trembling, can feel a buildup of lactic acid in his right hamstring that’ll be a bitch to deal with later.

He drinks two big cups of water and plays some fetch with Rocco in the backyard before he starts looking for his phone, abandoned who knows where last night. He finally finds it underneath a couch cushion. At least they didn’t make out on the couch: Klay likes his couch. He can just avoid his kitchen and his bedroom till he moves to wherever he’s going.

On the screen, blocking Rocco’s face, are six missed calls and three voicemails from Chris, a few emails and a text from his brother to their group chat. Nothing else.

He calls Chris back without listening to the voicemails, and as soon as he picks up Chris is off, telling Klay he’s coming over for them to look at the revised contract the Blazers sent him, compare it to what he might be able to get from Miami. Klay agrees, knows he doesn’t really have a choice, grateful for the distraction.

By the time Chris leaves, Klay’s starving again. He’s a little annoyed he ruined Thai for himself, but he orders a massive amount of sushi, turns on FIFA. He thinks about texting Steph, but his gut clenches every time he pictures him, back in his house, back to his real life. He’ll deal with it tomorrow.

***

Tomorrow’s full of meetings, with the front office of the Blazers, with Chris to debrief afterwards, a session with his trainer, who’s pissed about how dehydrated he let himself get yesterday. Klay lets himself be pulled from person to person, nods thoughtfully and does what they need.

He thinks about Steph constantly, guilt and shame churning in his stomach. He knows he should text him, just to make it clear he gets what Steph wants, they’re on the same page, nothing weird lingering. But he can’t imagine what he’d say, how he’d deal with Steph’s blithe friendliness, so he just doesn’t, yet. He’ll text when he knows where he’s going, a normal update and a reassurance at once.

It’s not Klay’s best week. Every other coach feels a little slimy, and Klay watches tape, pretends to listen to teams talk about how it’s a pivotal year, their depth of talent, how Klay could be the face of the franchise. At night, he gets high, does his best not to watch Steph Curry’s highlights on YouTube and think about the basketball they could have played together.

On Saturday night, he sees a screenshot on twitter of some random girl’s Instagram story, Steph Curry smiling bashfully in a club with two gorgeous girls, Draymond Green with a shit-eating grin in the background. He feels a sick twist of satisfaction in his gut: he was right.  
He smokes more, trying to get high enough to seal off the ache in his chest. It doesn’t work, but he’s in bed, spooning Rocco, when he gets a bunch of texts from an unknown number.

_YOIRE A DIXK_  
👿💀👿  
_I SOECIFUCALLY TOLD U NOT TO FUXK THIS UPPP!!!_  
Klay responds: _wrong number I think?_  
_It is NOTTTT THE WRING NUNBER_  
_O STOLE JT FFOM STEPHS PHONE_  
_UR A FUCKING ASSHOLE THIMPSON!!!!!!_  
_ Draymond?_  
_ OH NOW U KNOW HOW TO TEXT_  
_ INTERESTING_  
_ BUT U COULDNT FKNN TEXT STEPH AFTER TALING HIS GAY VIRGINITY??_  
_ FUVK U!!!!?!!!????!!!?!!?!!!!!!!_  
A minute later he gets _ANSWER ME U DICKKKKJKKJJ!!!!_

Klay doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what Steph told Draymond, how to explain that he was making it easier for both of them, giving everyone some space.

_Looked like you guys had fun tonight_, Klay texts, and turns off his phone.

***

In the morning, Klay wakes up, and he knows Dray’s right. He’s being a coward not texting Steph, and he needs to suck it up, make a clean break. He makes some coffee, trying not to stare at the junk counter, picture pressing Steph against it, then sits in his favorite chair, takes a sip. Breathe in, breathe out.

He opens up his notes app, stares at it for a while, then forces himself to type quickly, copy and send it to Steph. Miami won’t be Oakland, but it’ll have beaches and good basketball, a new challenge. It doesn’t feel like getting drafted, anticipation churning in his stomach, but it’s not bad. He can do this, keep going every day until he forgets what it felt like to touch Steph. It’ll be easier when he’s back on the court, and he’ll only play against Steph a few times a year.

_hey no worries I think I’m going to Miami. see you for golf sometime this summer?_

He puts his phone down, starts to take a lap around his room, but it immediately starts vibrating on the coffee table. He picks up before he lets himself think too hard about what’s waiting for him.

“What the hell, man,” he hears as soon as he picks up, mid-ring. Steph sounds madder than Klay’s ever heard before. “Why aren’t you coming here?”

It’s blunter than Klay expects, and he knows Steph’s not gonna put up with a bullshit answer, but that the truth’s out of the question. “It’s a good opportunity,” he tries.

Steph scoffs a laugh. “Better than being a dynasty? Better than going down in history, dude?”

“Going down in history as second to Steph Curry,” Klay shoots back. It’s so far from what he cares about but it’s the easiest thing to pull out.

It’s quiet on the line for a second. “Why did you kiss me?” Steph asks, breathtakingly open as always.

“I wanted to,” Klay admits.

“Then what —” Steph swallows his next word. Klay wishes he could see him, could try to guess what he meant to say. “It wouldn’t have to be. Like that. If you came here.”

“It would be like that,” Klay says, “that’s the fucking problem.”

Steph makes a punched out noise, and Klay feels like a monster. Local Homosexual Ruins Golden Boy. “Was it not good?” Steph asks, hesitant.

“Come on,” Klay says, the last hold after years of erosion giving way, boulders tumbling down the mountain. “Of course it was good. I’m _like that_, Steph. For real. For you.”

Klay takes a shaky breath, feels cleaved open. He fucking hates talking on the phone.

“Like what for me?” Steph asks.

“Fuck off,” Klay says. “Like those girls last night. Gagging for Steph Curry’s dick.”

“Girls?” Steph asks. “But you. You didn’t even text.”

“You tried to sneak out of my house!” Klay half-shouts, and Rocco barks, gives him a reproving look.

“You had meetings,” Steph insists. “You kicked me out.”

“Because you were already getting dressed to leave.”

“My boxers were disgusting!” Steph yells, control breaking. “I didn’t want to be naked in your kitchen.” They’re both panting on the phone line, Rocco pressing his nose into Klay’s knee.

“Oh,” Klay says, stunned stupid. “Really?”

“Of course,” Steph says, quieter. “Like, Rocco’s there.”

“So breakfast wasn’t. You weren’t lying? Or having like a gay panic?”

“Why would I lie about that?” Steph says, honestly confused. “I mean, it was definitely a lot. I’m not, you know, I didn’t expect that. With, uh, guys. But I’m not. I wasn’t trying to run away. I wouldn’t do that.”

Klay already said _Oh_, but he’s not sure what else to say, needs something less revealing than a plaintive _Really_? “Yeah?” he says.

“Are you really going to go to fucking Miami?” Steph asks, the classic dagger shot.

“I dunno,” Klay admits. “Rocco doesn’t like sand in his paws.”

“Come to Oakland,” Steph presses. “I’ll pick you up. We can play. Or talk. Or whatever.”

“Okay,” Klay says. “Yeah. I’ll send you my flight info.”

***

Klay figured Steph would send a driver or assistant to pick him up, but when he gets to arrivals at Oakland, there’s Steph, smiling for a selfie with a baby. Klay already regrets this.

It’s only like 4:30 in the afternoon, Klay booked the first flight he could. It probably seems weird, desperate, but he couldn’t stop replaying their conversation, searching for what Steph really meant, what he wants from Klay, and he couldn’t spend an extra second longer alone with his thoughts.

Steph looks up from the baby, scanning the crowd, and spots Klay. He waves happily, says bye to the baby’s parents and walks towards where Klay is coming out. Klay couldn’t decide between a backpack and a duffel, didn’t want to be presumptuous, and he fingers the straps of his backpack a little as he walks toward Steph.

“Hey!” Steph says. “I’m so glad you’re here! I wasn’t sure if you were gonna get a flight for today.”

“Here I am,” Klay says, and Steph reaches for a hug. Klay can see people with phones, curious, and it makes his skin itch.

“Your place?” Klay asks, and Steph startles a little, nods.

It’s quiet in the car. Steph’s a careful driver, and Klay watches his hands on the wheel, long fingers leading into curved wrist bones, tries to keep himself steady.

They pull past Steph’s fancy gate into his endless driveway. Steph puts the car in park, turns off the engine, plays with the keys. “I have a court, if you wanna play,” he offers, and Klay’s patience snaps.

“What do you want from me, Steph?” he asks, more harshly than he’s ever spoken to Steph before. Steph’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t recoil, keeps looking at Klay with his heartbreaking eyes.

“I want you to come to the Warriors,” he says. Klay opens his mouth to call bullshit, but Steph’s faster than him, adds, “And I want to do what we did. Again. If you want to.”

“What,” Klay says, snide, hating himself already, “once wasn’t enough of an experience? Have to try again to see if you like dick?”

Steph blushes at the word dick. “It’s fine if you don’t want to,” he says, stiff. “But I liked that night. I like you.”

And it’s stupid, it’s so stupid, but that bowls Klay over, yanks all the breath out of him. It’s so simple, so real, and all the shields Klay’s constructed aren’t prepared for Steph Curry, sitting in his car and looking at Klay, saying I like you. His defenses fall to pieces, leaving his heart unguarded, and he can feel his mouth start to widen in wonder, magnified in Steph’s smile back to him.

“I like you too,” he admits. His heart’s pounding, but his body feels looser than it has been, all cards on the table, tilted towards Steph like he always wants to be.

“Cool,” Steph says, but he’s smiling bigger than Klay’s ever seen, softer than after he won the championship, just for Klay. He looks up at Klay, mouth a little parted, and Klay can’t resist, leans over the console to cup his cheek and kiss him with everything else he can’t quite say yet.

Steph pulls away a little later, hair mussed, and says, “You are coming to the Warriors, right?”

Klay nods, not letting go of Steph’s shoulder, stroking the nape of his neck. It still might go up in flames; Klay’s never been this reckless with his heart, his career. But he’s kissing Steph Curry in his car, and to be anything but deliriously grateful would be a waste.

Steph leans in to kiss him, slipping him a little tongue, and Klay bites his lip as a reward.

Eventually, they make it into the house. Steph pauses just inside the door, and Klay does too. His house is how Klay imagined, high ceilings and white interiors, lots of windows, a little impersonal. Klay can see a Dell Curry jersey framed in the living room, recently-framed photos of the championship parade hung in the hallway. Steph’s catching his breath, and Klay looks at him.

“Are you sure this isn’t an experiment?” Klay asks. “I’ll still come to Oakland, but if this is. I don’t want to start something you don’t want to finish.”

Steph takes a second to think, not the automatic response of a press conference. He glances at the family photo hanging on the wall behind Klay, then back at Klay. “I’ve never thought about guys before. Before you told me that you were,” he pauses, and Klay can see the effort when he says, “gay. But I’ve been thinking about you since. I wanted to stay and figure it out that morning.” He smiles, sheepish, and admits, “Dray said I’ve been moping waiting for you to text.”

Steph’s hands are loose by his sides, but his shoulders are a little tense, his breathing measured. He’s offering himself up to Klay, his nervousness, his too-neat house, his brand new heart. He’s not Aaron; Klay’s not 19. What can Klay say besides _yes, yes, yes. _

Klay steps forward, pushing Steph against the door, not gently. Steph goes with a little sound that’s trying to be an oh, but Klay kisses him before it’s finished. He slides his thigh between Steph’s legs, and Steph parts his thighs easily, closes them back around Klay. Steph’s hand comes to the small of Klay’s back, pulling him in even tighter. It’s already a heady difference from last time, Steph not just being kissed but pushing back, exploring.

Klay loses his shirt, Steph’s hands shoving up and up until Klay pulls away to yank it off. Steph’s eyes are hungry, and he runs his fingers over Klay’s chest hair, tracing a line until Klay’s boxers, Klay inhaling sharply as he gets lower. Steph tugs him back in by his belt loop, and Klay goes, missing Steph’s heat already.

It’s a little while later when Steph pulls away from biting Klay’s neck, making happy humming noises at every cut-off gasp from Klay, and whispers, hoarse already, “Bed?” Klay nods, and Steph leads the way. Klay wants to look at every corner of Steph’s house, but mostly he just wants to look at Steph, his thighs, his back, his shy smile when he glances back at Klay.

Steph’s bedroom is grey and blue, full of light and, most importantly, a California King bed, neatly made. Klay thinks about Steph getting out of bed this morning, making it, thinking about Klay, and he has to tackle him down on it, Steph’s huff of laughter bouncing out of him as he flops onto the bed. Klay catches himself on his forearms to keep from crushing Steph, but it doesn’t matter, because Steph wraps a thigh around him and pulls him down, snug.

“What have you been thinking about,” Steph asks, looking up at Klay, and Jesus Christ. What hasn’t Klay been thinking about.

“A lot,” he admits, rolling his hips into Steph, and Steph bites his lip, closes his eyes for a second.

“Tell me,” Steph says, opening his eyes again, somewhere between a plead and a demand.

“God, Steph,” Klay says, tries to kiss him, but Steph turns his face, runs his nails down Klay’s back. “Thought about you from before I was drafted. Would watch your highlights on college road trips. Haven’t been able to think about anyone else in years.”

Steph kisses him after that, and Klay has to get his hands on Steph’s skin, make him feel good. He shoves his shirt off, slides his hands towards Steph’s waistband. He doesn’t have a plan, just want and hope, sweet foreign tastes on his tongue.

Klay wants to suck him off, rim him, fuck him until he’s all Klay’s, but every time he pulls away from Steph’s mouth, Steph make a keening, needy noise, and Klay has to come back, press reassuring kisses to his aching mouth. He manages to pull Steph’s pants off without moving too far, and when he wraps his hand around Steph’s dick, Steph cries out, “Klay.”

It should feel juvenile, just frantic handjobs, but instead it feels like the future, pressed against Steph till there’s nothing between them. Klay tries to concentrate, but Steph’s still kissing him, touching him, and he gives up, lets his kisses grow messy and his hand off-rhythm, giving himself over to total feeling. He can’t worry, can’t process, can only give and take and surrender.

They come messily, overlapping, come on Klay’s jeans and Steph’s thighs. Klay’s the one shaking after, and Steph strokes his arm with light fingertips, Klay nuzzling into Steph’s neck.

“Whoa,” Steph says, and Klay laughs.

“Not really my best work,” Klay deflects, and Steph punches him with a lazy, heavy fist.

“It was perfect. As long as you don’t run away.”

“As long as you don’t run away,” Klay counters, and Steph pulls away to look at him.

“Never,” he says, serious, and Klay has to kiss his luscious, wrecked mouth.

“Since college?” Steph asks, inches away from Klay’s lips, as Klay can feel his dick trying to get interested again.

“Yeah,” Klay admits. “But it wasn’t real until All-Star Weekend. That’s when I knew I was fucked.”

Steph laughs, bright. It’s like swimming into the sunlight, clear all the way down. Steph’s golden body against the white sheets, a pillow diagonal under his head, legs tangled up together. The look in his eyes. _Adoring_, Klay’s brain supplies, and Klay can’t fight it.

“I think you’ll look good in blue,” Steph says, and Klay nods.

“I think I’ll look good next to you,” Klay says. He’s ready for it.

***

They do end up playing one-on-one. Klay wakes up sticky in his boxers, curled up with Steph, the sun shining directly in his eyes over the hills. He’s not sure if Steph will be weird, and when Steph blinks his eyes open, Klay doesn’t slide his hand towards or away from Steph. Steph smiles at him sleepily, a new sight and one Klay wants to see forever, and Klay asks, “Still into this?” as he brings his arm up to cup Steph’s cheek.

Steph nods, leaning into Klay’s touch.

“What happened last time, right after?” Klay says.

Steph takes a deep breath, and Klay can feel it throughout his body. “I felt kinda. Scooped out? And when you weren’t there for a second, it felt a little freaky. I hadn’t expected anything like that. Even though I wanted something.”

“I’ll stay,” Klay promises, impulsive, and Steph smiles wider at him, leans his face up for a kiss.  
They stumble down to Steph’s sterile kitchen, rooting around for snacks. Steph sits on his counter, and Klay between his legs, eating handfuls of grapes and beaming at each other stupidly.

Afterwards, Klay’s ready to take him back to bed, explore all the skin he hasn’t mapped yet, but Steph tugs him out to his court, shaded by trees. They start dribbling, devolving quickly into one-on-one. Steph has the ball, and Klay sidles up behind him, pressing his hips into Steph’s ass, flagrantly fouling him with a hand on his lower belly. Steph grinds back on Klay, and Klay gasps. Steph keeps grinding, takes Klay’s momentary distraction to shoot a perfect three. Klay hears its clean swoosh in just as Steph ruts his hips back.

“Interference,” he manages to says, breathless, and Steph laughs.

“And it worked,” Steph returns, smug. Klay can smell the faint salt air and Steph’s sweat under his shampoo, their tangled shadows long against the court. He slides his hand lower, until he can feel Steph’s dick, half-hard, give it a friendly squeeze. Steph arches his back, and Klay needs to get his mouth on Steph, now.

Klay watches, hungry, as Steph strips outside the shower. Steph looks up at him as he’s pulling his boxers off, blushes when he meets Klay’s eyes. It sets something alight in Klay, a need to wreck him, make him feel better than he’s ever thought possible.

He lets his hands linger on Steph’s ass in the shower, kissing him until they’re blinking water out of their eyes, feeling every gasp and aborted movement as Klay squeezes and traces nonsense lines. Steph’s arms are draped around his shoulders, both of them blanketed in steam, filling up every space before Klay can worry about it.

On Steph’s bed, both of them still dripping, he squeezes Steph’s hand, flips Steph over with his knees underneath him. Klay drapes himself over Steph’s back, just to feel the press of warm, wet skin, then slides down. Steph makes an overwhelmed little noise, then another, higher, as Klay slides his thighs apart and settles between them. Klay runs a soothing hand down his side, keeps it on his hip, and Steph relaxes fractionally underneath his touch.

Klay starts with a kiss on his lower back, then his thighs, then settles where he really wants to be. At the first press of mouth, Steph keens, and when Klay uses his tongue, he shouts. Klay spreads his thighs a little wider, keeps going, sucking kisses and gentle pressure, Steph’s thighs trembling underneath him. Steph tastes like soap and skin, and Klay’s totally enveloped.

It’s an unbelievable rush, getting to take Steph Curry apart so thoroughly. Klay didn’t expect to feel so tender, so blessed. Steph reaches a hand down, clenching and unclenching, face pressed into a pillow to muffle his noises, and Klay interlaces their fingers, squeezes hard enough to pull Steph back from the edge. He keeps going, pressing his tongue and the tip of his thumb just inside, bruising kisses on his thighs and lavish, open-mouthed ones on his ass, until Steph’s whole body is shaking, non-verbal. Only then does he reach around for Steph’s dick. At the first touch of Klay’s hand, Steph’s whole body bows and tenses, fixed at both ends and taut between them like a flag in the wind. Klay wraps his hand around him clumsily, feels the wetness at his tip. He only gets a few strokes in before Steph makes a gorgeous, unearthly noise and comes, collapsing onto the bed.

Steph makes a needy, desperate noise, and Klay follows him to the bed, blanketing him with his body. Klay’s dick is achingly hard, and Steph’s thighs part just enough to let it press between them. Klay bites down on Steph’s shoulder, then again, harder, when Steph squeezes around his dick. He reaches down to Steph’s spent dick, kisses his neck as Steph mewls, oversensitive, and gathers some come, slicks his dick and Steph’s thighs with it. He rolls his hips, heat and tightness and the left over trembling of Steph’s thighs all washing over him. Steph turns his face, open mouthed and begging for a kiss: Klay sees his tear stained face, his overfull eyes, and comes, gasping, into his mouth.

***

The next morning, Klay’s out on the balcony. He figured out Steph’s weird coffee robot well enough to get some sort of coffee, after a lot of button-pushing and an emergency shut-off when steamed milk started getting involved. Steph’s asleep, covers tangled around him, making the golden light look wasted on the hills and distant bay.

Klay takes out his phone, calls Chris. Sometimes you gotta leap.

Chris turns his phone off on Sunday mornings to hang out with his kids, so it goes to voicemail. “Hey, it’s Klay. I’ve decided on the Warriors. Call me back and we can figure out contract stuff.”  
He expected to feel an adrenaline rush after, but he still feels like Klay, just grounded, steady. The fog is slowly receding, cool air slipping under his t-shirt, and he’s ready to get back in bed, press himself against Steph’s warm body.

The covers rustle as Klay slips back into bed, and Steph turns towards him, making a little displeased noise, sticking his nose into Klay’s neck. Klay slides his hand up Steph’s back, and Steph settles into the curve of Klay’s body. Klay stays pretty still, looking at the curls at the base of Steph’s head, the muscle of his shoulder. He’s just starting to get a little bored when Steph starts nuzzling his neck, hips moving to the rhythm of Klay’s long, steady stroked up and down his spine.

“Hey,” Klay says, rough.

“Mmhmm,” Steph says, into Klay’s neck, then pulls away, blinking his eyes open as he looks at Klay. “Hi.”

“I gotta get back to Rocco pretty soon,” Klay admits. “He looked lonely in the picture the dogsitter sent.”

The words wake Steph abruptly, and Klay regrets it, already misses his bleary eyes and total surrender. “Gotcha,” Steph says, rolling off Klay, looking for his phone on the bedside table. It’s not there. “Well. Thanks for coming.” Steph’s shoulders are tight by his ears, and he sounds like he’s talking to a reporter after a shitty game, carefully neutral.

Klay reaches out, hand hovering over Steph’s back, then makes himself land on Steph’s hip. “Do you wanna come back with me?” He’s trying to think of a reason, blame it on Rocco, but he thinks about Steph in the car yesterday, breathtakingly honest, and says, “I’d like you to.”

Steph turns backs, slowly, and Klay doesn’t know what he sees in Klay’s face, but something makes Steph’s face transform from locked-down to open and shining. Steph’s smile rushes though Klay’s skin and muscles and ribcage, smacks him in the heart. “Yeah,” Steph says, and they’re kissing, messy, hopeful, all-in.

***

It takes a couple weeks to get everything together, find a place in the hills with a pool and space for a little golf, pack up all his shit, get movers. He and Steph don’t spend the whole time together, but most of it, Steph helping him pack all his sneakers and making fun of his Space Jam poster, sneaking Rocco steak. They stretch together and Steph beats him at golf; Klay beats him at Smash Bros. It’s the kind of giddiness Klay hasn’t felt in a long time, the magic of touching Steph astonishing each day, sending stupid texts all day when they’re apart.

In early July, Klay wakes up in his new bed, alone, cool air rolling in from the open window. Steph’s doing a thing with UnderArmour for the next couple days, off to the East Coast, and Klay stretches out towards Rocco, flopping over to his stomach. He hasn’t really had time to think about being in Oakland yet, caught up in all the moving pieces, but there’s fog outside his window that feels nothing like the heavy grey of Portland, carries the tang of the ocean straight to him. When he picks up his phone, there’s some texts from Draymond:

_Steph told me how great ur pool is_  
_And he’s out of town so i know it’s safe to come over_  
_ Me and HB will be over at noon im bringing my flamingo float!!!!!!_

Klay could try to evade, but he knows it’s pointless, and besides, it is a great pool. _See u then_, he texts instead, and smiles at the wave of emojis he gets in return, suns and waves and palm trees and praise-hands.

***

In addition to Harrison Barnes and a flamingo inflatable float, Dray brings over plenty of beers, which they drink between dunking each other. Rocco’s still a little too nervous to jump into the pool, but he races around the edge, trying to snatch the ball they're tossing around out of the air. He barrels into Dray when Dray gets out for another slice of pizza, and Dray just laughs, falls to his knees to let Rocco frantically try to lick his face and snag the ball.

“Dude, your dog stinks,” Dray tells Klay, but Rocco’s pounding his little tail on the wet concrete, ecstatically happy as Dray scratches behind his ears.

“Dude, you stink,” Klay says, and Harrison laughs and nods. Dray hasn’t moved away from Rocco’s face, even though his breath does smell like ass. Good dude.

Klay pushes away from the edge of the pool and turns onto his back. He spreads his fingers wide, feeling the water run between them, staring at the endless sky above. He's buoyant, floating aimlessly, water lapping onto his hips and stomach from where Harrison's splashing around in the float. His breath slows down, sensation pushing out any thoughts, till Klay's nothing but a body melting into the pool.

A giant wave smacks him in the face, and he startles, whipping around until he sees Dray, swimming up from his cannonball, cackling. Unbelievable.

***

They end up on the couch, salt water dripping from Klay’s hair onto the pillows. Dray insisted they watch tennis — “it’s the fucking Williams sisters!” — and Klay’s rolling them a joint, Rocco sprawled across his lap.

He licks the edge to seal it, passes it to Harrison to start. “Nice roll,” Harrison says, and Dray cracks up.

“Like you know anything about weed, HB, come on,” Dray says, stretching his legs out from the chair to shove Harrison.

They start bickering, and Klay leans back, letting the blissed-out feeling from the beers and sun fill him completely. He slips his phone out of his pocket and opens his texts with Steph, smiles at the dumb pic of him in the makeup artist’s chair from the morning.

_Can’t wait to win a championship with you,_ he sends, and takes the joint from Dray’s open hand.


End file.
